


The Drop

by anneapocalypse



Series: The Drop [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Disability, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Femdom, Impact Play, Project Freelancer, Rope Bondage, Sensation Play, Shibari, Speech Disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 57,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Meta, he was Maine, and he was hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic in a trilogy. Parts 1 and 2 are complete. As of 7/26/17, part 3 has a first draft and is heading into the revision phase.
> 
> You can [follow me on tumblr](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com) if you like for fic updates and a lot of other fandomy stuff and considerable rambling about my writing process. I also have a [fic-only sideblog](http://annefiction.tumblr.com) if you would like updates with less noise.
> 
>  **A note on the Explicit rating:** A few chapters of this fic contain explicit sexual content. The explicit portions are not the majority but they are definitely relevant to the plot. Chapters containing explicit content will be noted as such. **This fic and the trilogy as a whole are appropriate for adults only.**
> 
>  **Warnings:** This story portrays a BDSM relationship. That relationship is not limited to the sex scenes, so even if you skip those, it’ll still be present. This is not intended to be a portrayal of a perfectly exemplary relationship, BDSM or otherwise. Research has been done, and care has been taken to portray certain things with a level of accuracy, but at the end of the day, it's still fiction, so please bear that in mind.
> 
> In addition to explicit content and depictions of violence and injury, this story will contain references to bullying, suicide, PTSD, and other potentially triggering content. This series as a whole will follow Maine's canon story arc for a good while. Things will get heavy. Individual warnings will be placed on individual chapters. Please heed them as needed.
> 
> I welcome concrit on this piece and appreciate all of your comments very, very much. Thank you for reading!

Lukewarm water washes the salt and sweat from Maine’s skin, courses over his neck and shoulders and back and drives the soreness from his muscles, mostly. The showers have good pressure, a hard and steady spray that calls back the twinge of every blow landed in battle, and every trace of bruise laid across his backside and the back of his thighs. Mm. Those can stay. Like to stay under longer just for that, the way the pounding stream presses into his flesh and draws out that faint ache.

But she’ll be back any time, and he can hear Wash out of the shower already, the clatter of him reassembling his armor.

Maine turns the water cold, relishing the shock, letting it rinse over his skin. Ducks his scalp under, cold streams running down his temples and behind his ears, before shutting the water off.

He towels off his face and head quickly, the rest of him more carefully in prep for suiting up again, swiping the towel methodically down his chest and back, under his arms and between his thighs, leaning on the tile wall to get one foot and the other. Drapes the towel carelessly around his neck—too small to go around his hips—and walks out naked into the locker room. Empty except for Wash, already helmeted again.

Armor’s quick out of processing, not much damage from this mission. Just a pressure wash to keep from tracking planetary grit and the remains of several dead targets through the squad lounge. Maine punches in his passcode for armor retrieval and the chute slides open to give him his second skin back. All clean and stacked and neat. He rubs blunt fingertips over the white plating, liking the feel of it, shiny and waxy smooth.

Always feels good getting back in the suit. Maine tugs the thick polymer mesh to his hips and tucks himself into it, getting everything comfortably situated. Wash doesn’t watch him suit up. Wouldn’t matter, anyway. Might see, but he won’t care.

 

 _Invention_ ’s parked in orbit for rendezvous but no word on the twins when they make it up to the observation deck. Not much to observe except the black of space, the marbley blue planet, and the leaderboard. Even as they walk in York’s saying where’s Carolina, like they’d know. Maine shrugs. He does know, actually. Not like he’d say.

Wash wanders to the viewscreen, near Connie, who’s staring intently at that whole lot of nothing. Biting her lip in that way she does. Gonna make it bleed if she doesn't stop.

“Hell of a way to stop home,” Wash remarks.

Maine cocks his head. Wash nods at the blue planet.

Always forget Wash is an Earther. Not that he reads like a colony kid exactly. More like he doesn't read any particular way, when you come down to it. Got that military brat flatness to his talk. Under it though, yeah, he supposes it's there, though Maine wouldn't have picked it up without knowing. Accents are tricky.

He rumbles noncommittally. Never been to Earth himself. Won’t, probably. Unless it comes down to Earth in the end.

York's asking how their mission went and Maine listens in for a while as Wash fills in the surface details in an excitable blur. It’s real, the excitement; Wash may be leaving out the parts they aren’t supposed to talk about like how many Innies in the bunker or what particular moon but he always does seem to beam when they get one good, a kind of lift in the hard angles of his face and brightness in his eyes. Wash is younger than he looks and older than he sounds, with the his steely gray eyes and the little bit of a stutter when he gets excited, like his mind is going just a step faster than his mouth.

It’s not the same, Maine supposes, he’s _got_ the words, they just bottleneck sometimes. Still, Wash never seems to be bothered by Maine’s lack of them. Nice thing about him.

A few other agents cluster near the leaderboard. Hampshire, Missy, Nevada. Beta squaddies. Anyone Gamma or lower has mostly given up shooting for top at this point but some of the Betas are still scouting, waiting for a screw-up, a KIA. Looking for a spot to climb into.

Wasting their time on this one.

 

No one announces their return—Director doesn’t do mission updates, need to know and all that bullshit—but the greasemonkeys talk and word filters up from the hangar before the team's out of debrief.

They’ve migrated to the squad lounge, Connie and Wash talk training and Connie destroys Wash at a round of Chinese checkers. Maine plants himself against the wall. Chairs are too small to be comfortable. Floor's easier. Second game, Wash is still losing bad so Maine pokes his shoulder to get his attention and starts gesturing out moves. Connie snickers but doesn’t protest. They do better but she wins again. York throws some popcorn in the microwave and burns it so by the time they hear, the lounge smells liked scorched popcorn. Wash scoops up a handful anyway, returning to his spot on the floor to pick out the less burned kernels and pop them in his mouth one by one.

Then the door slides open, and Carolina's back.

It was good. Not perfect, can tell by the way her smirk tugs down at the corners, just a little, like she's reining it in. But good. North behind her. No South.

Hips sway. Hair swings, ponytail tumbling down her back, out of the tight knot she ties up under her helmet. She doesn't look at him, of course. That's okay. They'll have time later.

Right now the Betas are firing questions at her, why'd she go in, what happened, what was the objective. A look passes between her and North. Maine gives his head a slight shake. 'Course she can't tell them the objective. Probably doesn't herself know all the details. Doesn't stop them asking. Maine leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. Doesn't have to keep his eyes on her. He's aware of everywhere she moves in the room, a turquoise glow in his peripheral vision.

She does glow. It was good, then, in the end. She moves slow. Swaggers. Swings her helmet away from her hip where she's been holding it, lays it on the table with a clunk and tosses out flippant replies to the chatter before dropping easily into a chair. Leans an elbow on the table, tilts her head, laughs with a note he knows for pride.

“Jump at oh-five-hundred,” she says. She says it to the room, to no one in particular. But then she looks right at Maine, just for a second or two. Eyes bright. Her lips curve up further.

He looks away, but not before a quiet pleasure swells in his chest.

In a few hours they jump out of Sol.

And that means sliptime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout outs!
> 
> Many, many thanks to [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa), my dear friend and partner in crime who’s seen me through the whole length of this project thus far and given me more support, encouragement, and friendly kicks in the ass to get writing than I could ever describe, even when she wasn't into the source material anymore. There aren’t words for how great she is.
> 
> When I began this project, Carolina/Maine as a ship was barely a speck on the fandom horizon, and in terms of fanworks it remains a bit of a rarepair to this day, though more and more one-shots for this pairing have popped up in the meantime, which is wonderful to see. Please check out my periodically-updated [Mainelina Recs list](https://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/151360034766/annes-mainelina-recs) on tumblr for my favorite fics and a lot of fantastic artwork!
> 
> I've been working on this project for so long that it would be near impossible to catalog every one of my influences. Certainly [every fic I’ve read and reblogged](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/tagged/rvb-fic) has been an inspiration to me in some way. A number of specific influences will be cited along the way, and I hope readers will take the time to check out those authors and artists as well.
> 
> It is impossible to talk about Maine fic without mentioning the outstanding [Weapon of the Times](http://archiveofourown.org/series/63829) series. Rae's Maine is a very different Maine than mine, a really great contribution in longfic for this fandom and highly worth reading. Thanks for your writing and for the Maine and Sigma conversations; you have brought a lot of energy and inspiration to this fandom and to me.


	2. Sliptime

Jump prep turns the ship into a brief storm of activity. The lower squads flood the decks with gripes and mutters and then, just as quickly, recede into the cryo chambers. Crew activity surges in their wake, whitesuits scurrying around putting all nonessential systems into sleep or auto mode, and then they’re gone too, leaving a cool dry silence behind. Half the decks go into lockdown. Jump crew and the Alphas remain in the core area, the still-beating heart of the silent ship, as they tear into the slipstream.

Most ships, a jump means cryosleep for all nonessential personnel. Nothing to do in slipspace. Cheaper to freeze you. Any other outfit, Maine would be packed in ice just like every other jarhead, but not here. _Alpha Squad never sleeps_ , their unofficial motto. Even the Betas go to cryo, and most of the _Invention_ ’s crew, but the Alphas stay awake, and train and train and train.

Sliptime is eerie quiet, the mess mostly empty, the corridors silent. They get their pick of the training rooms, the lounges to themselves.

And the nights.

Of course there are no nights or days. Just the manufactured cycle of the 24-hour Earth clock standard on all UNSC vessels. They cycle as one during jumps. A team. The first jump, everybody was awake, and it was all team-building and evals and ratings and the division into squads before they arrived in the Sanguinus system to start sim training. Now, just the Alphas.

It was strange at first, the quiet and the drag of day into day without a definite endpoint. But things changed during the jump out of Sanguinus.

 

Carolina made it a point to train one-on-one with every member of Alpha Squad. Wanted to know them. Co-op and competitive exercises both. Feeling out how they worked together and the contrast of their strengths. Infiltration with York, combat engineering with Wash. And she drilled them all in her martial arts and CQC. They needed to know her too, she said. Understand how she worked.

So she’d team up with Maine for strength training and he’d run agility drills with her. And other things, too. Ways she’d push him. Paired him with North for long-range marksmanship training, Wash for mid-range. CT for diversionary tactics.

You’re not Infantry anymore, Carolina would remind him when he came to her with raised eyebrows about the training match-ups. You’re not just a tank here. A Freelancer needs to be versatile in the field.

He was skeptical, but his combat scores improved.

Training with her was good. Not that it was like _that_ , at the beginning. Took him a while to even realize she was pretty, not because she wasn't and not even because he wasn't used to seeing her without the helmet but because it was never her face he was looking at. Not her body either, so much as her trajectory. Her angles, her momentum, her arc and force.

She was always better than him. Faster. He’s stronger. If he could ever land a blow, or pin her, he’d have her. If he could ever. From the first time they went head-to-head in a match, right after the leaderboard went up, when Carolina was already on top and no one could beat her one-on-one. Somebody had the bright idea, hey put Carolina against the heavy, put her against Maine. People were taking bets.

From the beginning something was different about the way she looked at him, but he couldn’t pin it down until they squared off, and she looked right at him with a cocky little tilt of her helmet. Whoops and catcalls and cheers from the rest, looking on from above. Watching her, and she damn well knew it, but when she looked at him, she looked right at him, like the rest of them weren't even there. “You ready for this, Maine?”

He wasn’t. He was never ready for her, and he didn’t really mind.

 

So one night on the jump out of Sanguinus they kicked the armor and hit the floor together and just sparred and sparred. No force amps, no shields, no enhancements, just fists and flesh and speed and sweat until they drenched their workout tanks and shed those too, down to shorts and her black sport bra. He can still remember how it felt, that wild endless exhilarating fight, feeling out each other’s every move in the space between breaths, blocking and dodging deadlocked with not a blow landed, on and on until it didn’t feel like they were moving against each other but _with_ each other and he didn’t want it to stop even as his pulse pounded and his muscles screamed, right up until the moment she flipped him flat on his back and landed on top of him and her eyes met his, wide and green and full of wonder, and he felt all his breath go out of his lungs.

They fell into it easy as gravity, but she pulled back short of kissing him in the locker room, dropping back on her heels. You can say no, she said. When he nodded, she still didn’t move. You can _always_ say no. Okay?

He nodded more firmly. Okay.

Flat on his back on the narrow bench that ran down the line of lockers, feet on the floor keeping his balance on either side, he really knew he was fucked when Carolina straddled his waist and pinned his wrists above his head and stared him down hard like she was daring him to push back. When he didn’t, when he relaxed under her with a little smile up at her, a delighted smirk spread across her face.

It only got better from there.

The rope, she brought out one night from behind her back like a gift, with a smile full of intent. Got something for you, she said, sitting on his hips while he lay on her bunk, unfolding it between her hands and letting the soft coils fall on his chest. He stared, breath caught in his throat and her lips quirked up, eyes glinting. She raised her eyebrows and he broke into a grin. Nodded. Loved the way she smiled back. Loved how it felt, wound in practiced coils around his wrists. Not new to him, but it had been a long time.

 

Sliptime isn’t their only time but it’s easier. No missions, no staggered sleep schedules, just long stretches of training, and the off hours.

The ship pulls into the slipstream, the quiet settles around them and Maine settles into the comfortable routine and waits.

 

Maybe the others know. Maine doesn’t think too much about it. Long as they don’t bother her. They’re careful around the others, though. So he's surprised on the first night out, when Carolina drops into the space next to him on the floor in the squad lounge, and bottoms up on her can of soda.

She's like this after good missions. That must be it. Still high on her success on the oil platform. Wish he could’ve seen. Hell of a thing to watch, Carolina in action.

Wash appears on the other side of him, griping at North and York for taking up the couch with their sprawling limbs. Relax, York says, you can just use Maine as a couch, and they laugh.

Hard to care about York though when she's here, stretching her legs out in front of her as she settles against the wall with a soft clunk. She’s still in armor, helmet off, ponytail loose down her back. Maine thinks of taking his helmet off. More comfortable to keep it. Time for that later. Wash is still helmeted too. York and North have theirs off, and Wyoming and Florida. Connie and South are in civvies.

Wyoming’s claimed the best chair, silent but eyes alert, twisting the waxed point of his mustache with one hand, the other holding a glass of the scotch he has not offered to share with anyone. Florida sits on the floor against Wy’s chair tipping a bottle of sparkling water to his lips, legs folded under him, long dark braid lying over his shoulder and nearly to his waist. He says something in a cheerful tone, Maine isn’t really paying attention to the words, but he hears how it draws an uncomfortable laugh from York, and that makes Maine smile a little. Usually it’s York making other people uncomfortable. Nice for a change.

Connie’s claimed the next best chair, and South sits on her and they elbow each other but Connie doesn’t make her move, Maine notices, and she could. Connie’s tricky. Never where you think she’s going to be. If she didn’t want South on her, South would be on the floor. Instead Connie grins and reaches up  to weave her fingers into South’s fine, flyaway hair and rub her scalp. In the space of a second Maine watches the hard lines of South’s body soften, sees her lean back more into Connie, just a little.

North nods along to York’s banter, but his eyes keep flitting to his sister. Wash follows York and North's conversations, but they don't leave room for him. He has to interrupt to get their eyes to turn his way. Wyoming’s eyes roam the whole room. Florida chatters cheerfully and doesn’t look at anybody.

Carolina watches. Eyes on the whole squad, an ear to each conversation, an interjection here and there. Maine stops following the talk pretty early on, but he hears her voice. Sees the good-natured glare she turns on York when he laughs at his own jokes. Hears when she laughs, the bright nasal sound of it.

Her hands move restless on her soda can, fingers reach up to twist a strand of her hair. When she gives him a quick nod he knows to rise to his feet, amble quietly out of the lounge. Only Wash’s head turns to see him go. She’ll come in a few. Hard for him to stay invisible, but she’s the brightest thing in a room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Florida's hair inspiration.](http://cineresis.tumblr.com/post/100250387186/agent-florida-has-shown-up-with-his-hair-in-more)


	3. Carolina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your helmets, my dear readers, we're about to earn that explicit rating.

Carolina has a good room. Number One means a single. Still small, still regulation but the one bunk leaves a comfortable amount of floorspace. Enough. His eyes drift there even as the door whispers shut behind them.

HUD goes dark as Maine undoes the seal on his helmet and blinks for a moment in the real light and unfiltered color of the room. Always takes a minute to adjust to that. Helmet goes on the footlocker where she’s already laid her own, the broad gleam of his faceplate reflecting a distorted streak of aquamarine.

Any new wear on her armor plating’s been waxed over in processing but a few scuffs remain on the knuckles of the gloves, and Maine strips off his own, catches her hand and rubs the pad of his thumb over their roughness. Satisfying. Can see her fists flying, spinkicks and quick jabs, always a second ahead of your reflexes. He gives an approving murmur. She smiles up at him, pleased, and rises on her toes.

Her hand hooks into his breastplate for a tug. Even stretching to her tallest she doesn’t reach without him stooping.

Swear the way she kisses almost knocks him over, every time. Not that she’s forceful, exactly. She can be. More like—ah, he’s never been able to explain it. How it feels when her mouth finds his, makes him feel naked, even before he’s out of his armor.

Her hands are faster, flicking open the clasps on his breastplate before he gets to hers. Eager as she is, she takes the time to carefully lay the plating aside. Stoops and bends to pull her greaves and boots off, balancing on one foot and then the other with easy grace. Maine has to sit on the edge of the bunk for his. A pile of white and aquamarine grows beside her black footlocker.

Down to the black suits. Something appealing about that. Sleek but thick, dense, with the gel layer that temp-controls and hardens under pressure. Can feel it when when he puts his hands to her waist, gives her a squeeze. Against their skin, their real skin, the layer of synthetic mesh that wicks away sweat. Over the gel, superlight fibers strong enough to hold back the tearing void of space. Holding them together. As much skin as their real skin. More.

Fingertips graze his jaw and she catches his eye with a smirk. Caught him staring, deep in thought. She reaches to unzip his suit.

After so many months in the armor it’s strange when it's not there. Hard to believe the Infantry body armor before Freelancer ever felt like enough. Suiting up for the first time, it was like part of his body had been missing right up until then.

Now the seals release, the familiar pressure pulls away, her cool hands slide along the underside of his biceps to help pull it off. Air on his skin. She tugs the suit down his hips. Suit’s tight around the legs and she lets him pry it off the rest of the way. Lay it on her footlocker. You don’t throw your own skin on the floor, not even for this.

Carolina draws him down for another kiss and when her mouth meets his with consuming heat her hands keep pulling him down, and he drops to one knee and then the other as their lips break apart and hers brush his forehead, the wet of the kiss softening the scratch of her chapped skin. His eyes pass the arch of her chin, the length of her neck, the plane of her breastbone and the long pale V where the suit lies open to her naval.

Her hands leave him long enough to strip out of the sleeves. Her small breasts slip free, nipples tightening in the open air as the suit fall to her waist. He raises an eyebrow in question and when she nods, Maine slides rough palms under the black sheath, around her hips. Tugs it down. Callouses catch a little on the mesh as he peels the thick second skin down her taut thighs. When his fingers dip behind her knees, she twitches, stifles a giggle. Ticklish. He leans forward to plant a kiss on her belly by way of apology.

Carolina lets out a breath of real laughter this time. Cups a hand around the back of his head, warm and approving.

She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder as she picks up one leg and then the other to pry her feet out of their snug casing. Takes a long moment to straighten the suit out, settle it neatly on top of his. He sits back on his heels, patient.

There’s a crackle of anticipation in his stomach as she turns to him again, bare feet on the gray-carpeted floor. She kneels to slide her black box out from under her bunk and opens it slowly, pursing her lips. Same look she gets reviewing intel before a mission, flipping through notes on a datapad with quick swipes of her index finger, when no one else is looking at her. The long white coil of rope she drapes loose over her arm, and his eyes go there automatically and she catches his jaw in the curve of her palm and brings his gaze to hers.

Right in the eyes and the pierce of them makes him feel like his skin’s been turned inside out. Right in the eyes. No one ever does that.

But everything's different when he's on his knees.

Looking up at somebody. Not used to that. All the angles of a person's body change. The thickness of her thighs, solidness of her hips at near eye level. Her narrow shoulders broader from this angle, the contours of her muscular biceps highlighted in the low light, the soft curves and dips of her chest. Her breasts settle in crescent folds, looking heavier from below than they would feel in his hands. He knows how powerful she is, he's met her on the training floor and fought at her side in the field, but she's deceptively small, a full head below him when they stand. Closer to it here, all that power coiled in her compact form. Wrapped tight between her joints and tendons, stretched in the taut lines of muscle. With the dimmer turned down, the low light casts a fuzzy halo along the outline of her red hair, still tied back. She comes into sharp focus, the rest of the room receding.

Words fade, when they’re like this. Names, even. His own. Hers. He doesn’t think Carolina, or her other name either, the one they don’t use. Wouldn’t, unless she asked him to, and she doesn’t.

Here, they don’t need words at all.

He watches the angle of her jawline shift as those green eyes, intense even in shadow, gaze down the line of her long nose to meet his. Her mouth softens almost to a smile, a patient curve, and her palm slides up to caress his bare scalp. Prickles crawl along his skin and down his spine.

Maine lowers his eyes away from hers.

From here: the tight curves of her calf muscles, her ankles, her bare feet. No painted toenails today. Used to see that more, during training. Not much lately.

She moves around behind him, comes up close against his back, her breasts soft against his shoulderblades and for a moment he can feel her heartbeat as her small hands slides down his arms. She takes him by both wrists and draws his arms behind his back, positioning him carefully with one wrist flat against the other. He lets his breath out slowly as he feels her loop the folded rope once, twice around his wrists, slipping a couple fingers into the loop as she pulls it snug and secures it. The rope is a synthetic fiber, smooth and sturdy. Not so much as a snag along its length, even after repeated use. Probably cost her a lot. He's never asked.

There’s a pause while she reaches for the box on her bunk, and then he feels cool metal pressed into his left hand. Something they picked out early on, a retired figure 8 from one of her old rappel rigs. Easy to hold, makes a good solid clunk if it hits the floor. Rare that he has to signal her to stop, but it’s so much easier than talking. Words are hard enough to pull up any other time. Bound under her hands he tends to lose them completely.

There’s such a fluid grace in the way her arms wrap around him to pull the double strand of rope across his chest. Quick by habit—she’s done this so many times, the simple box tie is as familiar a pattern as her moves on the training floor—but she slows just a little when he exhales and leans back into her embrace on instinct. Doesn’t stop, though, has the rope wrapped twice over his chest in seconds, sitting just below each shoulder and secured in a deep V at the back, above his wrists. Her fingers slide between the rope and his skin on one shoulder and then the other, dressing the line, evening the tension. He draws in a deep breath and feels the pull across his chest. She pauses long enough for him to let it out, and rests her hand warm against the side of his face for a moment.

Maine lets his eyes close, lets all his attention turn to her. Easy in the quiet, just the hum of the ship's engines deep below and the soft sounds of her movements. Tickles a little, her hands slipping under his arm, the whisper of the rope pulling through to lock the front wrap in place. She pauses when he twitches, smooths the rope’s path with her hand, and when he relaxes again she kisses his shoulder, pulls it back through and moves to other side.

He flexes his biceps against the tension. Not to resist—if he actually pushes back she stops, waiting for him to relax. But he tests them a little. Needs to feel it. He could break out of a rope if he had to, and the more he feels himself constricted, the more that instinct claws its way up his chest, set an edge to his teeth. Doesn't matter this isn’t the battlefield, doesn’t matter it’s _her_ , he’s trained not to be contained, to break whatever binds him and tear down whatever stands in his way. He could, and his muscles remember that and want to. The tension starts deep in the pit of his stomach, climbs through his chest and down his thighs, but it’s when she reaches around him to wrap the second line across the lower part of his chest that the feeling bursts loose from him in an involuntary shudder.

Can't blame his body for the instinct. It's why he’s alive.

Carolina feels when he tenses, and pauses with her arms around him. Holds the smooth bite of the rope against his skin, gentle but firm, and rests her cheek warm against the back of his neck. His breath quickens, heart rate spiking. His hands have curled into fists, fight pulsing in his limbs. The metal’s warmed now to his touch, and his thumb worries on the smooth edge in agitation.

Maine fights to even out his breath, to relax again. She waits. Insistent adrenaline burns beneath his skin, the same push that keeps him swinging, beating and battering an enemy until it falls, that keeps him running for an extraction point with hell on his heels. What keeps him _breathing_. Won’t ever not be a fight, not to give in to that. Every single time.

She brings one hand back to slip into his, bound behind his back. Wraps her fingers around his and squeezes once, twice. He squeezes back, one, two. He wants it.

It’s just getting there.

He's breathing a little too fast and she lays her free hand flat against his upper back and breathes a slow, deliberate rhythm behind his ear. He forces his breath out in a controlled exhale. Draws in, following her breath, not releasing until she does. She's warm at his back, still holding the working end of the rope, not tight, not too slack, easy in her hand. Breathing in unison, until the divide between his breath and hers becomes a blur.

She folds the rope smoothly across his chest just below his pectorals, and he feels the slight tug as she wraps it into the main line lying against his spine, adjusting the tension a little before slipping the working end under one arm to lock it in place, then the other. Finally tying back into the center, finished and Maine pulls a breath in to feel it and lets it out in a long sigh.

Carolina tucks her chin right over his shoulder, and he hears the tug of an elastic coming loose and feels her hair falling over his skin, feather-light. Her hand rubs his shoulder, follows the curve of muscle up to his neck. Fingers curling around his throat make him shiver, but he doesn't flinch away from the touch. Her lips press into his neck just below his jaw, and he feels her smile.

"Good," she whispers. The touch and the approving kisses say everything they need to, but her voice, too, is warm against his ear. "Doing so good, Maine."

A graze of fingernails right along the central tie, just to the side of his spine, demands his attention. Climbing, climbing, one vertebrae at a time, crossing over the V of the rope and still climbing until it reaches the nape of his neck, light and yet sharp, tickling, maddening, making him shiver. Then her mouth presses to his spine and he gasps at the heat of it, and the slight drag of teeth that follows. Hot breath of laughter on his skin, her hair brushing over his back again. His bound arms shift a little as he fights not to squirm, and then _oh_ her mouth is on his neck and her teeth sink in and he lets out a grateful noise. Tips his head to the side to let her bite a trail down the curve of his shoulder. Can tell she’s having fun when she gets into it like this, sucking luxuriantly at his skin, marks he’ll feel later hidden under the press of the undersuit.

Her arms wrap around him, not quite giving him time to relax into the warmth of her embrace before her fingertips drag lightly along the wraps the cross his chest, tracing the ropes in opposing directions. He has to bite his lip, swallow, breathe to keep from writhing under the light, teasing touches, even more so when her hands travel down to trace the planes of muscle in his abdomen, then lower, thumbs ghost light in the curve of his hipbones. His vision blurs, the sound he hears escape his throat pleading. Even when her hands let up he twitches with phantom sensation.

Only for a moment, and then she moves on to his feet.

Not a lot of feeling there but something she does, digging her fingernails in right where the callouses soften, in the arch and the space right under his toes, gives him a jolt of sensation so intense his back arches and he groans openly. She eases off, then sinks her nails in again, harder. They’re not long, but just enough. _Ah_. Just enough to feel as though she might start peeling off his skin slowly.

“Easy,” she murmurs, amused, pausing to rub deep circles into his arches with her thumbs. Maine shudders, and his eyes open enough to watch with detached interest as a clear bead building at the tip of his cock reaches critical mass and rolls over his crown and falls, leaving a thin, cooling trail along his inner thigh.

Warm hands smooth away the sensation in his feet, and then they’re gone, leaving him for a few moments with just the rope on his skin and the urgent beat of his pulse rising to the foreground. Nerves firing off strange small pockets of awareness: the line where the rope sits across his sternum, the rough flat carpet under the bones of his feet. Discomfort’s starting to set in in the absence of her touch, and an impatient twitch grows in his muscles. Thighs tensing, floor hard and unforgiving under his knees and shins and feet and all his weight. Absently it passes through his head how he’d curl his toes under, if he were in the field, captured and bound like this, how he’d spring himself up and with how much force and where and when he’d throw his shoulder, to throw his opponent off balance, then lunge again with the other, put them on the ground. Could do it without getting his hands free first. Easy. Not that he'd ever be captured. But if.

He feels her take hold again, and exhales slowly at the comfort of her touch returning, her fingers curled between the rope and his skin.

Her fingers trail over his chest, she thumbs a circle over his nipple, motions he knows to be her thinking. The a firm push at his back. Up onto his knees, she’s pressed up against him and her hand wraps around his throat again and a sense of urgency floods his body, hitting off all all the pinpoints of ghost sensation he’s still feeling, pulling at them like threads not quite drawn together. Her breasts are against his back, her nipples feel stiff, and his body registers that with a rush of heat that settles heavily between his thighs. She locks her hand into the box tie again, pulling just enough to keep him tight against her, enough to feel where every line bites into his skin. The hand on his throat is loose, not constricting, but he feels it acutely with every breath in and out that passes through her hold.

It's nothing like battle, nothing at all and yet there's nothing else he can compare it to, and the jump and stutter in his pulse isn't totally unlike facing down a Covie fireteam or a pack of Innies. Except here, there’s not the roar of rifle fire and smoke and killing blows and pain to push it all under. It’s raw. Stripped. Naked like in a dream, where they put you up in front of everyone and say you have to talk now and everyone stares. Every eye like a plasma bolt on your naked face.

Every coil of the rope seems to bite in even tighter. Can’t tell if it’s the pressure of her grip, or just his nerves firing off.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Good,” she whispers.

Inhale. Exhale. Quiet presses in on all sides of him. Safe. Safety is such an odd sensation. Don’t have to fight. Don’t have to talk. Don’t have to do anything.

That’s good. But hard too.

When she lets up on the rope he feels his body slacken against her. Sweat on his palms, but he keeps his fingers wrapped tight around the 8. Her hand wraps around his jaw, gentle and approving, steadying. She holds him until his breathing evens out again. Slips her hand into his, checking in with the double squeeze. He squeezes back, one two. Yes.

A soft kiss brushes against his neck right before she catches his nipple in a hard pinch between knuckle and thumb. He rocks forward into her touch and she laughs, squeezing again, then letting her hand trail slowly down his side, over his hip. Her palm rubs over his ass, warming his skin to her touch and letting the anticipation build until he’s breathless all over again.

Carolina shifts a little more to the side, still keeping close as her other hand draws back and lays the first gentle blow. Hardly a slap even. Another on the other cheek. Soft strikes with her palm. Maine draws his breath in and out slowly, just enjoying the feel of her hand landing on his skin.

The next hit lands lower, on the back of his thigh. Then the other side. And again, lower, and again.

When she moves back to his ass her next hit has a little more sting to it. Maine feels a soft grunt of pleasure escape his throat. She could go faster. Could be rougher with him, wouldn't hurt him. Had partners before who went harder, pushed more. But she's careful. Always careful. Made it that way from the start. There are rules.

Her palm beats a path down the back of one thigh, then down the other, and now he's starting to feel it, the sting deepening and the heat rising in his skin. He feels his breath catch in the waiting beat between each blow. Feels his blood pound in his flesh and in his ears on every strike. Feels a moan escape.

Harder now. She keeps such a careful rhythm, he knows exactly when each beat is coming. Feels it before he feels it, almost. More intense with every pass and the rhythm of his arousal is coming to the foreground too, harder to ignore. The floor is hard under his knees, his abs are tight from holding himself upright. He grips the 8 tighter and every breath becomes a gasp or a groan. The thud of his heart begins to blend in with the drumbeat on his flesh, the murmurs of praise in his ear blur with his own shuddering breaths, and the flush of heat under his skin melds into the warmth of her body at his back.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that he wouldn’t mind if it didn’t stop.

But when it does, he sags against her in hazy pleasure and relief as she rubs the burn from his skin, smooths her palms down his thighs. Heavy breaths. She shifts to let him fall back on his heels, and wraps herself around him, laying her cheek against his shoulder, and for a few minutes he rests, wrapped in the warmth and safety of her, the rope holding him no more than an extension of her hold.

“Good,” she murmurs into his skin.

A hands slides lazily down his abdomen, and his awareness follows the touch. Her other hand draws away and he feels her shift again. A soft sigh, a different kind. His thighs twitch and a fresh heat rushes to his cock as her breath hitches.

Head down, eyes closed, he almost holds his breath, listening for the way hers quickens against his skin, barely a whisper.

“Mm?” she murmurs low in his ear, and when he nods eagerly, wet fingertips press to his lips.

Maine lets them slide into his mouth and sucks hungrily, licking the taste of her from her fingers before they pull away, leaving him breathless with the feel of her grinning against his neck.

Carolina’s hand doesn’t leave him as she rises, tracing a path around the back of his head as she stands and moves around to the front of him. Maine lets his eyes open but does not raise his head.

She puts a foot on his thigh. Wiggles her toes, a teasing tickle next to the firm pressure of her heel. Edges her foot up, until she's nudging at his balls, just enough to draw a grunt from him. She lets out a thoughtful hum, fingernails tracing patterns on his scalp in a way that’d be relaxing if she didn't have his dick pressed between his stomach and her foot. "Hmm?" she murmurs, even that low syllable sounding smirky in the way that sends a longing shiver down his spine. She leans forward to grasp the rope across his chest, her breasts dipping low in front of his face as she tugs him back up on his knees.

Her palm is warm then on his scalp, stroking, gentle with approval as she offers a nipple for his mouth. Soft sucks and licks earn him a sigh, a nip with his teeth gets him a warm thigh against his cock, a sudden touch that makes him draw in a sharp breath. She hums with pleasure, shifting to the side to give him her other nipple. Her hand is back between her legs, even before she pushes him back to sit on his heels again and steps in close. So close to him he can feel the heat radiating off her, can smell her scent, can _hear_ the little wet sounds of her touching herself. She caresses the back of his neck, breathless but not yet allowing him the privilege of hearing her moan.

But he keeps his eyes down until she cups his face and tips him up to look at her. She grasps the line across his chest as she steps forward, settling her feet on either side of his folded legs. Then she parts her pale brown tangle of hair for him and with the other hand, takes him by the back of his neck and tucks his face between her thighs.

Maine's lips meet slick wet heat and she sighs at the pressure of his mouth even before he moves. The hand gripping his head is tight with urgency, she’s more than ready and he doesn’t need to start off slow. Quick circles on her clitoris with the flat of his tongue, then a long drag down the wet valley between her lips, licking her soft folds apart in deepening strokes. Her textures are so absorbing to him, all soft and hot and velvety on his tongue as he goes deeper, but he makes sure to return to her clit with good firm strokes she can ride against. Knows he’s got it right when she shoves his face in so hard he can feel the pressure of bone deep beneath her soft flesh, salt-slick smearing over his face as she gasps and finally groans for him, her thighs tense against his face, her nails digging into his scalp, and ah, he’s always loved this. The patience it takes, varying the speed and pressure just right, soft and firm and then deep, deep pressure with the flat of his tongue letting her hold his head in a vice grip and _fuck_ herself on his mouth, keeping him in so tight he has to hold his breath until she lets him up for it, only to drag him in again, until her thighs go taut and she shudders, and her muscles pulse and pound on his tongue.

Carolina rides out a good long orgasm against his mouth, gripping his head tight and letting him draw out every last tremor with short gentle sucks on her clit. He doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes until she pulls back with a shaky breath and draws her fingers through the wetness on his skin. Tips his face up with her fingers to see her face at last, a sated smile on her lips, pleasure beaming in her eyes as she wipes his face off gently with her bare palm. He sees her chest rise and fall as she steadies herself with a deep breath and a hand on his shoulder, then drops down in front of him, resting a knee in his lap.

She leans in for a long, slow kiss, giving him the privilege of her tongue against his.

After all of it, a warm wet hand on his dick is almost a shock. Now she holds his gaze with hers, hand on his jaw, keeping him lost in her green eyes with every tight stroke, and that stripped, raw feeling seizes him again just before he spills over with a shudder in her hand.

 

He can still feel the snug lines of the rope where it’s dented his flesh, even after it’s untied and coiled up and put away and it’s just her hands smoothing over his skin. His body itself wants to coil up, wants to fold his overheavy frame smaller and let her wrap herself around him, when they curl up in her bunk afterwards. Too tight to sleep but good for right now, when she tucks his head against her chest and he gets lost for a while in the hard slope of her breastbone against his cheek, and the steady thump of her heart. A heavy thrum of energy still pulses through every limb, all his nerves still live under his sweat-glazed skin, but her palm smooths over his scalp and his eyes half-close.

She rubs the indents in his shoulder with a pleased murmur. "Love to get you off the floor one of these days.” Hands calloused and gentle on his shoulders, his neck. So nice. She snickers. “Think anyone would notice if I installed a suspension rig in here?"

He snorts softly. Mumbles, "Too heavy."

A snort in return. “Please. I've belayed worse."

He makes a mock-affronted noise, nestling into her.

She laughs as she nuzzles his scalp, her breath and her lips and her nose all a hot affectionate tickle.

 

Wash stirs a little when Maine gets back to the room later. Head turns toward the door, checking. Satisfied it’s Maine, he rolls back over. Won’t say anything. Never does.

He feels quiet now, a deep calm pervading his body as he stretches out on the too-short bunk. Sinks into the mattress. Breathes slowly in and out, still feeling every phantom sensation from her rope, her body, her hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The safe signals Carolina and Maine are using are known as the Brush Drop and the Two Squeezes Test ([reference here.](http://www.bdsmwiki.info/Safeword#Safe_Signals))


	4. Routines

There is no good time to assume the communal bathroom will be empty and so Maine does not turn and walk out when he finds Connie leaning over toward the mirror, messing with her hair. She keeps it cropped close on the sides and long on top,swept to one side and falling to her chin. She flips it one way and then the other, pursing her lips, and throws a glance his way as he sets up at a sink. "Hey, Maine."

Maine grunts a hello.

She plugs in her clippers and turns them on, filling the tiled room with a buzz, as Maine sprays a ball of shaving cream into his hand and lathers up his face and head.

She's watching, out of the corner of her eye.

He doesn't watch her so closely. Has to pay attention to the razor against his throat. Does his face quick and then moves to his scalp. The sound of running water mingles with the buzz of the clippers, a comfortable clamor of white noise. The sink fills with globs of shaving cream, slowly melting down the drain. Out of the corner of his eye he can see her free hand carefully holding aside the long pieces of her hair as she buzzes the short part down. Short short.

Takes a while to do the back of his big head. He stops paying attention to her for a while, focusing on the slide of the razor over his skin.

He ducks his head over the sink, splashing water over his bare scalp. Feeling for any remaining prickles with his hands. Not easy to tell. Fingers are too calloused. The buzz of the clippers stops.

"Hey Maine." Connie turns the back of her head toward him. "Can you check and see if I missed any spots?"

Maine rumbles an affirmative, toweling off his head and then his hands.

He steps closer to her. Runs his fingers over the short bits of her hair. Not bare-smooth like his. Fuzzy. She giggles as he touches her scalp. Ticklish. His eyes, rather than his fingers, find a little triangle bit near the back of her neck where the hair is maybe a quarter inch longer.

He takes the clippers from her hand, flips them on again and buzzes the spot even. Flips them off and hands them to her. "Good?" she says, turning around to face him. He nods. Turns the back of his head to her with a questioning noise.

She laughs. "You're too tall." He bends his knees and she laughs again, reaching up to rub a cold hand over the back of his scalp. "Nah. You're good."

A grunt of pride. He usually is.

 

Morning session is lockdown mix with Wash. FILSS sets the floor for them with an irregular cover pattern. Not one of Maine's strong points. Never fits behind anything. Waiting isn't his thing, either. Rather take a few hits and get to the target.

Wash is good today, tagging Maine on his first shot. Pistols. Fucking worst. Feels like firing a toy gun. Give him heavy weapons, if he can’t use his fists. Or at least a good solid rifle. First round, he gives up and just dive-tackles Wash’s cover block with one shoulder, shattering it across the floor, and knocking Wash clean back into the wall where he still manages to pull off a couple of shots, totally immobilizing Maine’s left side before he rolls straight into him and shoves the barrel against Wash’s chestpiece and purple foam bursts across the plate.

FILSS chirps a point for Maine and Wash grumbles as his armor unlocks for the next round and he hitches back into motion, scrambling to his feet amid chunks of cover block and lockdown foam, dusting himself off with his usual terse grace. "Damn it, Maine, there are rules here."

Maine lets out a gruff laugh.

Next few rounds Wash comes back, getting quicker and skirting around behind faster than Maine can adjust his cover. In the field a pistol shot wouldn't even penetrate his armor unless he was at point-blank range. In here, one shot and his armor locks. One hit to the torso, dead. But that's training for you. Once he gets his AI, gets the overshield running in the field, he'll be unstoppable.

And fuck pistols.

"Match complete! Winner: Washington."

Maine tosses the paint pistol into the equipment recovery chute. Wash follows with a triumphant raise of his chin. "Good match." Maine grunts. He'll get him next time.

 

On the training floor he’s a rock and Carolina is an aquamarine blur. He towers solid, she batters him with blows designed to destabilize. She feints, he blocks and she spins, lands a flying kick to his shoulder, knocking his balance off at last.

Just like that he's on his back with her thighs wrapped around his neck and a smug tilt to her helmet. He tries to throw his torso up and forward to throw her off. Can't get enough momentum. She sits back and crosses her arms, daring him. He grunts. Rises under her weight, carrying her with him. Can’t get her off but he can still move. She snickers, thighs tightening around his head, holding on as he climbs to his feet. She’s blocking his visual. Her codpiece knocks against his helmet.

She starts to laugh, and Maine does too, his shoulders shaking under her as she hangs on and hangs on.

He rocks his weight back and then throws his torso forward.

Oh, but she’s ready for it. Her limbs release, he feels her push off his body as she arcs, backflips, feet hit the wall behind her and she springs. Catches him dead in his center of gravity, tumbling him backward and they roll, a tangle of limbs and plating.

He rolls to flip her but she’s gone, twisted out from under him, out of his hands like she was never there and a hand’s on the back of his helmet, pressing him down, a knee shoved into the small of his back.

“Maine, Maine, Maine,” she chides, triumphant. He’s reaching back, grabbing for her with both hands, wriggling and twisting under her but she’s never there, wherever his hands grasp. Her voice is a low burn of delight, and something pulls at the core of him as she holds him down, holds his faceplate against the floor. “You’re mine.”

 

They hit the showers side by side. Maine turns the water on cool. Clouds of steam rise out of her stall. She likes it that way. Can’t shower together. Tried it. Too hot for him. Way he likes it, too cold for her.

But no one’s around when they step out, her skin flushed red from the heat. She wraps the towel carelessly around her small frame and holds it up with one hand as she turns to him, rising on her toes. He ducks down to meet her and she kisses him, wet and smelling of shampoo. She reaches up, rubs the top of his head with her palm and smiles, green eyes snapping as water drips from her red hair.

He lets out a rumble of a laugh.

Carolina.

 

* * *

 

Sliptime passes, a week, two weeks, then as quickly as it began, it’s over. Tearing out of the fabric of space like a needle on the edge of a new system, and the ship wakes up again. The Betas and the lower squads and the nonessential crew awaken, picking up the chatter they left off weeks ago, the same jokes. First days after the jump, they keep a distance. Uneasy around the Alphas, like they’re feeling that pass of time they missed.

The mission roster goes back up, beside the ever-present leaderboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe [Rae](http://punishandenslavesuckers.tumblr.com) a big shout-out for sparking my interest in the potential for connections between Maine and CT. Relatedly, [here's your fic rec for the week.](http://punishandenslavesuckers.tumblr.com/post/65629175930/)


	5. Splinter

First drop in the new system is way out past the belt. Cold rocky little planet. Not much to look at. Some peaks and valleys, outcroppings. No terraforming. There's some thin atmo, temperature well below viable. Whole facility’s underground. Maine scans the HUD readings idly—sulfur compounds, among other things, that’d be the yellow tinge over everything—as they hop out the back of the Pelican in a row, Connie and Wash and him.

Mission should be simple. Boring, really. Some Innie splinter group, hardly seem worth the hit but intel says they’ve got some modified Covie weapon tech worth having. Schematics from the data center, prototype from weapons storage. In and out. Intel gives two entrances into the bunker. Maine's is marked in red on his HUD, Wash and Connie's marked in yellow. "Sync?" Wash says. At number six on the board, Wash is the highest of them and that makes him lead for the mission.

Wash and Connie are good to work with. Not as tough as Maine and not as fast as Carolina but good in their own ways. Smart. Wash’s a crack shot. Connie’s good with a blade. Both of them sharp with computers. Not Maine’s thing.

"Sync." Connie's clear voice overlaps Maine's low grunt.

 

They break off. Maine’s marker is a service entrance. A back door for supplies and maintenance. Maine heads off toward a jagged spur of rock that stands out against the yellowed horizon. Closer, the rock splits. Narrow strip of ground slopes down between. That’ll be it. Set into the rock below, wide cargo hatch. Needs a code to get in. Maine swipes his glove across the metal surface. Thick coat of yellow-gray dust. Rubs off enough to find the thin line of a flip-down panel hiding a keypad. Dust smudges on the keys. Used recently.

“Establishing remote connection.” Connie.

Maine eyes the smudges, shifting his weight idly. Hates waiting.

“Hm.” Connie makes a displeased noise over the radio. “It’s tighter than what intel said.”

“We can take Maine’s entrance if—”

“I can do it, Wash. Just give me a minute.”

There’s a long, tense pause. Figure if he had to he could probably break in. Hardware’s antiquated. Rip it out, make some sparks. Bad for stealth though. Maine sighs. Stealth.

“Can you get through it?” Wash says.

“I _can_ ,” Connie says tersely. “It’s just… risky. Don’t want to blow this thing before we even get inside.” She sighs. “There’s a backdoor. Obvious. Too obvious.”

“A trap?”

“It could be.”

“Maine’s entrance.”

Another sigh. “Maine’s entrance it is.”

 

Connie and Wash join him at the hatch, where Connie takes a quick perusal of the keypad and exhales with relief. “Analyzing…” she murmurs needlessly, her HUD scanning the keypad, running the smudges and wear through an algorithm, coming up with probabilities. She has them in in under a minute.

There’s no airlock. The hatch screeches open on a freight elevator, rusty gating around three sides, a drop-down metal ramp on the fourth. Boots are loud on the rickety platform. No floor buttons either, just a big orange switch set into a panel on one corner. Wash throws the switch with a harsh scrape, the elevator drops and Maine’s stomach with it, down and down and down to the bottom of the shaft where the it clunks to a halt. Maine’s HUD adjusts to the dim red lighting, giving him a view of a cramped loading zone, a couple narrow maintenance tunnels and a corridor branching away.

Wash pulls up the maps on their HUDs, marking the route. “Connie, the airlock up ahead should get us where we’re going. Maine, you’re going for weapons storage, should be on this level. We’ll get you passcodes as soon as we’re in.” He cocks his helmet. “And uh, keep in mind, it’s a stealth objective. Try not to leave a trail.”

Maine grunts. Too bad.

 

Bunker's old. Irregularities in the building materials. Rounds a corner and the steel of the corridor walls is suddenly shiny, newer. Amazing the place is still functioning at all. Innies moved in after UNSC abandoned it. Mistake. Should've leveled the place. You leave a hole, rats move in.

Quiet down here though.

“That’s not—” Connie’s muttering on the radio.

“Is our marker off?” Wash. “That fork’s not there.”

“No, we’re just south of the elevator.”

Maine rounds a corner and hits a dead end. Well. Not dead. Secure bulkhead. Not on the map. Not even a keypad.

Minute to find the word before he radios Wash. "Blocked."

“Your route's off too? Look for an alternate way around. We’ll see if we can update the map once we hit the data center. Should be—”

Connie interrupts. “Shit! Cover!”

Radio goes quiet.

There’s a long silence. Maine surveys the corridor impatiently. Should’ve run into somebody. Greasemonkeys, security. Something.

“Data center occupied. Looking for a remote terminal. Hang tight.”

Nowhere to hang. Maintenance tunnels too small. Shoulders wouldn’t even go in there probably. Maine moves back around the corner, checking for alcoves, targets, anything.

There’s another corridor he hasn’t tried, one swings away from the elevator in what should be the general direction of weapons storage. Still too quiet. Where's that damn map update. He growls a gruff inquiry over the radio. Wash crackles back. "Working on it. Lot of data here. Hang on, I got—"

He patches out. A hiss of static. Then he's back. "Maine, transmitting."

It takes a painfully long time for the update to download. Maine keeps moving, but the corridor turns sharply, doubles back. Only locked doors, maintenance closets. Cleaning supplies. 

He’s about to round the corner anyway when he hears voices. About time.

Maine one-eighties and heads back to the bulkhead. Hope they aren’t coming this way. He moves into shadow, back against the wall, watches as they pass where the corridor forks. Gray suits, light-armored. Don't see him. Wouldn't matter. They wouldn't even feel it. Too bad.

The download bar hits 100%, finally, and Maine scans the updated map. Wash's highlighted a new route. Maintenance tunnel. Shit.

"Better?" Wash crackles.

"Too small."

"All we got, Maine. Can you get in there or do I need to send Connie down?"

He grumbles a reluctant affirmative.

It's not that he _can't_ get into a maintenance tunnel, all right, it's that he has to stoop so much he'd be faster crawling. Not the place to be on his knees. He crouches, thighs touching wall on both sides. Tunnels look even older than the rest. Streaks of rust. Some visible buckling in the seams, rivets popped here and there. Not good. Whole place liable to cave in. Light’s just a thin strip of emergency red. A whole section of it’s out and he moves in near-darkness for twenty feet or so, legs starting to cramp. Hears some intermittent chatter from Wash and Connie but he isn’t listening too close. Grits his teeth, takes deep breaths as the low ceiling presses down on him. Almost there.

The hatch at the far end is sealed.

Not quiet now. Thudding footsteps on the other side of it. "Hey, we got one. In the tunnels—"

Maine reaches for his rifle.

No.

He draws back in the narrow confines and throws a punch into the door. Leaves a good dent.

More voices outside. "Shit. Maybe we should—"

Maine pauses for effect and then hauls off again. A long crack forms in the vented metal. Garbage. Could’ve been through in one hit. More fun this way.

"Oh shit. Uh—"

Maine straightens up, best he can. Hard to angle it right in the tight space. Aim the back of his shoulder at the door. Find a stable stance. Shifts his weight, testing it.

It'll work. Gotta do it quick.

He throws his weight, the door busts off its housing and flies into the corridor. Some halfhearted rifle fire rattles off his armor as Maine lunges back to full height and charges them, knocking the first few off their feet. He hurls the biggest one a few meters down the corridor for good measure.

The squad’s panicked, splintering—weren’t expecting him to get out, apparently. Figured they’d stand out there and gloat like they caught a bug in a trap. Maine growls, leaves his rifle maglocked to his back. Shooting’s too good for these fuckers.

So much for not leaving a trail.

He shrugs, shoves the bodies into the maintenance tunnel and tosses the broken hatch carelessly over the opening. Good enough.

 

Weapons storage right around the corner. Wash was right about that part.

“Need code.”

“Transmitting.”

Maine punches in the numbers Connie sends him. Code’s long. Keeps having to stop, find his place again.

INCORRECT PASSCODE.

Maine growls and does it again, checking every fucking digit. Goes back to the beginning and checks them all again before hitting enter.

INCORRECT PASSCODE.

Time to test his Plan B then.

One solid punch caves in the panel, bending it enough for Maine to pry it loose and tear it out. Some sparks. Torn wires. He reaches deeper into the hole in the wall, digging out whatever bits of hardware his gloves hands can reach, but the door stays sealed.

“Maine, status?”

He growls in response.

“Take that as a negative,” Connie says tartly. Doesn’t sound surprised. “I—shit, Maine hang tight, we’re—”

The radio cuts out for a minute.

Maine wraps both hands around the frame at the edge of the door's housing. Old construction, got to be some kind of a structural weakness. He pulls, kicks, and strips of metal come loose in his hands and he throws them to the floor, but the door itself stays good and tight.

“Fuck.” Wash. “We’re in a tight spot, Maine. Might need you up here.”

“Negative,” Connie interjects. “I can create a diversion.”

“Connie, you’re not cleared—”

“It’s a fucking holoprojector, Wash!” Connie’s tone is biting. “It’s not even an offensive mod.”

“A holoprojector that’s linked to your neural lace! You know as well as I do what the side effects—”

“We can talk about side effects when we’re _out_ of here—”

Maine transmits a snarl. The radio goes silent for a minute.

“Connie.” Maine can hear that whinging, petulant edge to Wash’s voice. The one that creeps in when he’s worried and trying to sound angry instead. “You don’t even have line-of-sight.”

“Quiet,” Connie says flatly. “I need to focus.”

The radio goes dead, and that’s when the lights go out and alarms start screaming. Night vision activates. Maine swings his rifle off his back, but no one comes at him. Must all be above. Shit. Not good for Wash and Connie. He runs a hand down the seam of the sealed door. Considers how much weight to throw against it.

Wash’s voice crackles over the radio. “Maine, abort—get out and—extraction—”

Shit.

 

The tunnels are pitch black. No red emergency lighting. Cut that too. Fuckers. Maine crawls, the only light what his helmet provides.

Can get back to the elevator. But with the power cut—

Shit.

 

“Maine!”

He stops with a jolt. The voice coming in as he hauls himself out of the tunnel isn’t Connie or Wash. It’s statickly, broken, but getting clearer.

“Maine, do you copy?”

Her.

“Copy.”

"Are you at the service elevator?"

"Not working."

"Hang on."

He squints up the long dark elevator shaft, watching for the spear of light that pierces the dark. Hears a scrape up above.

"Heads up. Dropping you a line."

Night vision lets him see something dropping the long, long distance toward him. Her ascender, hanging from a length of rope, dense and black. He catches the device. Feels for the carabiner and locks it into the waist harness of his armor. The metallic click echoes all up the long shaft.

“You’re secured up here,” she says, and he puts a testing pressure on the ascender trigger, taking out the slack. Pressure points in the armor tighten at his hips and thighs, and he feels the gel layer modulating in response, redistributing the pressure. Her voice drops a couple of notes and he feels a deeper pull, too, as she adds, “I’ve got you.”

He grunts in affirmation.

His stomach drops as the floor falls away. Don’t like that much. Like having solid ground under his feet. Maine takes a breath as he rises, swinging his feet out to keep from knocking against the wall. He squeezes the trigger a little too tight, jerks upward faster and catches his toe on a metal beam as it goes by, a harsh sound in the echoey shaft.

“Doing good,” she says. “You’re almost there.” Her voice is matter-of-fact now, brusque, Team Leader voice, but he notices she’s got him on a private channel.

The ledge at the top of the shaft comes into view, the black cable strung over its edge and the outline of her armor in the dark, highlighted as friendly on his HUD. He comes to a stop a foot or two below. No foodholds so he gets an elbow up and then the other, hauling his weight over the edge. Exhales. Solid ground.

Carolina has him unclipped and is winding up the ascender rig before he can think to ask what’s the status, why is she here. She quickly touches the small of his back as he gets to his feet, no more than a second, snaps the rig into her mag holster and says, “We gotta move.”

 

He starts picking up Wash and Connie again at last, in crackling staticky bursts, as they exit by the maintenance hatch. Comes in clearer as they make for the LZ.

"Connie, Wash, report!" Carolina calls over the team channel. “Do you copy?”

“We read you, Carolina.” Connie. “Package secure. Hell of a mess in here but we’re inbound for extraction.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Wash adds, and between the thud of his running steps Maine throws a glance back toward the bunker and sure enough. Gray and brown against the dusty yellow landscape. But not the only ones.

“Hostiles.”

"Hostiles!" Carolina echoes. The rumble of a Warthog behind them. No, two. A pack of Innies, rifle fire, gunners taking aim. “Wash, Connie, you need to move. Vehicle four-seven-niner, we need extraction now,” Carolina barks. “Enemies approaching, no cover. LZ is hot, repeat, LZ is hot.”

Niner comes in over the channel. “Orders to engage?”

“Negative, just get us out of here.”

Maine’s ears fill with a deafening roar. Ah. Best sound in the world. Nothing like the engines of a Pelican passing low over your head in a wave of noise and heat, pulling down in front of you and dropping that back hatch. He hits it at a run, skids, managing to stop before he crashes into the far wall. Carolina pulls to a smooth sideways halt.

Wash and Connie are converging on their position. Wash hops aboard and swings around to aim a few bursts of suppressing fire at the pack of Innies fast approaching. The first Warthog skids off course suddenly, the driver rolling out of the seat with one of Connie’s knives buried in his visor.

“All aboard,” Carolina says, “take us out!”

They scramble for seats as the pilot closes the hatch and pulls up sharply. Carolina just grabs one of the ceiling handles, swaying only slightly as the Pelican rumbles through the atmosphere. She's staring out the narrow back window. "Prototype is a negative. Maine was unable to infiltrate the armory before they cut power. Connie, tell me you got something for us.”

"We got—oh god."

Carolina turns. "Oh god _what?_ "

There's a long pause.

"Corrupted," Connie says flatly.

 _"What?"_ says Wash. “It can’t be. You—”

“I _know_ , Wash.” Her helmet jerks in his direction. “I scanned it. I checked everything.” She lets out a harsh breath. “That comm jammer they threw up after the alarm…”

“Maybe we can recover it,” Wash says.

Connie says nothing. Carolina doesn't either. Looks out the back again.

They make the rest of the trip in silence.

 

No one asks Maine anything during debrief.

“It was my fault, sir,” Connie says with a weary frankness. “I failed to adequately evaluate the facility’s security measures.”

“Sir,” Wash interjects, “our intel was bad. The maps were wrong. We—” Connie’s helmet angles at him sharply. Wash goes quiet.

“You will not _concern_ yourself with the task of assigning blame for this unfortunate incident, Agent Washington,” the Director says, biting and cold. “You will resume your training and the next time you are deployed, I expect to see results. You are dismissed.”

They file out, silent until the door closes behind Carolina, and that’s when Connie halts, takes her helmet off, and turns to look at her.

“Why’d they send you?”

“In case you needed me,” Carolina says without missing a beat. She leaves off the obvious, _And you did_. Maine thinks of the lower level plunged into darkness, the dead elevator. Would’ve got out without her, probably. Maybe not.

Connie stares her down for a long moment, shakes her head, and turns away.

 

“The point was to seal you all in, you know,” Carolina tells him later, when they’re in her quarters, just the two of them. “They know we’ve been targeting their operations, and they must’ve detected our jump to this system. They wanted to take some of us alive.”

She doesn’t say, _You’re lucky_.

Wash holds at number 6 on the board. Maine, for some reason, moves up to 7, with Connie dropping to number 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to: my RvB writer chat folks on skype for listening to me whine about writing this chapter and giving me some helpful kicks in the ass, Larissa for advising on ways to pull this together and giving me more of said kicks in the ass, and Mr. Apocalypse, for having long and enthusiastic conversations with me about tactical stuff and listening to me read stuff out loud innumerable times. I am in all of your debt.


	6. Internals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for explicit sexual content.

The three of them are off the mission roster for the next few days. Can’t tell if it’s because of the last one or not. Mission schedules are erratic. Unpredictable. And then there’s the damn board, always changing things.

 

He and Wash are on their way off the training floor when Wash cocks his helmet nervously and says, "Hey uh... not really supposed to talk about this but can I... ask you something?"

Maine tilts his head right back.

"You ever get called to meet with Internals?"

Internals. Never heard that before. Maine shakes his head.

Wash nods slowly. "Didn't think so, I just... well, they called me in for a secondary debrief after the last mission. Asked me a lot of really weird questions. I dunno. Seemed like something was going on." He shrugs. "I'm probably overthinking it. Just wondered if they talked to anyone else." He pauses uncomfortably. "Guess not. You won't... I mean... you won't say anything to anybody, right?"

Maine gives him a look, and Wash lets out an awkward laugh. "I know. I just meant..." He shakes his head. "You know what I meant."

Maine returns a friendly snort, and kicks the locker room door open, letting Wash go in first. Wash gives him a wry smile as he pulls off his helmet. "Thanks."

 

Afternoon, there’s a cluster of agents around a monitor on the observation deck. Not unusual. Lot of Covie action on the vids, every day. Kansas and Rhode Island are at the heart of it though and Maine’s tall enough to see over shoulders that Rho has that blasted out look, and K’s got his hands over his face. York’s all over them, hands on shoulders. Makes Maine twitch just to watch but they don’t jerk away like he would. Talking, of course. That’s York. Always talking. Hey K, K. Hey. Rho. It’s gonna be okay. Rho’s still. K leans into him, just a little in a not-quite-falling kind of way.

They don’t come closer, him and Connie and Wash just come from lunch. Mich breaks off the edge of the cluster and mutters something to Wash. Couple planets in Omicron Oona glassed. K’s from there. Rho knew somebody. Dunno who got out. Evac was incomplete. Looks bad.

"Inner colony kids," Connie murmurs as they back out. "Guess they still figured their worlds might be safe." She shakes her head, but her tone’s gentle.

Wash’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything. Maine nods. True.

 

Lounges are divided by squad. Alpha lounge is supposed to be a privilege, though Maine can’t figure out what’s so special beyond a few extra chairs and a foosball table. Squads change, too, sometimes. With the board. Less now.

 _Clunk_.

The damn foosball table. Wash loves the thing. He and Connie take on North and York. Maine can’t stand playing, tiny knobs in his big hands and little plastic figures kicking. Always missing. What’s the fucking point. Wash though. Rarely misses a shot. Somehow he always lines up that painted plastic foot just right. York’s obnoxious, spinning the bars wildly, but he’s good too, he and Wash knocking the ball back and forth with vicious speed and loud echoing _clunks_ in the goals.

Game, Wash says with a muted satisfaction. Rematch, says York. Thought you said you were good at this, says North. Connie just snickers under her breath.

Wash plunks the ball unceremoniously between the center rows and cocks his head at York. “Your kick.”

 

Carolina’s out of armor when she comes in, a crescent of sweat in the low neckline of her workout top and her breastbone gleaming damp. Her hair’s pulled back high on her head, bangs sticking to her forehead where they’ve fallen loose.

She doesn’t look at the others. Goes to the fridge for a water bottle. Maine keep his eyes on the foosball table, the twitch of Wash’s hands in focus, the bright red of her hair moving in his peripheral vision.

It occurs to him he could leave first, see if she follows, but that’s not how they usually do it. His eyes shift, watching the curve of her bicep as she lifts the bottle to her lips, the way her throat moves as she swallows.

Her eyes are off somewhere, fixed on a point of nothing on the wall, but then she lowers the bottle, and her eyes come down and meet his, for a moment, lips curving into a brief but deliberate half-smile.

York’s talking to her, asking her to join the game. Her eyes snap to him.

“No thanks,” she says, quick and short.

 

Maine waits until she’s gone and the others are deep in the spin and clatter of another match before rolling to his feet and walking out. Not quiet enough. York looks up to see him go, just in time for Wash to slam the ball in his goal. North lets out a groan.

Don’t care what they do, really. Just feel like seeing her.

She opens the door with barely a tap from his knuckles. Waiting for him. Good. He knows he’s pretty good at reading her, but the confirmation’s nice.

“Got an hour before my next session,” she says. He nods. Same for him.

 

They don’t fit well in the bed. Hell, he barely fits in his own bed. He stretches out on his stomach, feet hanging off the end, and she flops on his back, resting her head between his shoulder blades. She’s still warm from her workout, and the sweat on her temple dampens the fabric of his t-shirt. He closes his eyes, her weight easy, a gentle pushback against every inhale.

There’s tension in her breath as she shifts a little, getting comfortable, her legs lying between his, arms folded loose against his sides. A slight tremor in her exhale. Twitches in her muscles. Hard to settle down. He knows the feeling.

“OK?”

She hums softly against his spine, a considering sound. “I’m all right.”

Still high from the workout. Adrenaline, muscles warm and awake. Tired under that, but not feeling it yet. She drags her toes over the back of his calf. Maine twitches his foot. Maybe wasn’t on purpose. But then her fingers brush up under the hem of his shirt. Snug around his ribs. Nothing ever fits him right. But her hand works up under it, warm on his skin.

She grows more still, and her breathing evens out and for a bit he even thinks she might have fallen asleep. Starts to drift off himself. Their rhythms meld comfortably together, her breathing on the off-interval of his. Feels good.

He feels a little shiver roll through her body then. Rumbles questioningly. She answers with a sigh. Her bangs tickle his neck. Wonder what she’s thinking about. Training, Innies, Omicron Oona. She shifts her body higher on him, presses her face into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck. Inhales. Well. Maybe she’s thinking about him, too.

Her hands squeeze him a little, travel lower to his hips.

Her weight shifts then, hands on his shoulder blades pushing herself up. He opens his eyes as her fingers drag down his spine. Shivers.

“Got time,” she says, “if you want.”

She lifts her weight off him to let him roll over, meet her eyes. The black lines she draws in are smudged at the corners. The wrinkle of tiredness and worry in her brow doesn’t smooth out all the way but when he nods, gives her a smile, she does smile back, and starts to tug off his shirt.

He rests a hand on her ribcage when her tank comes off. She smirks, letting his fingers climb high enough to thumb the soft rise of her nipple before she leans over, anchoring herself with a foot tucked under his thigh as she leans to reach under the bed, coming up with her rope, accompanied by one of the polyvinyl gloves from the pack she keeps in there, and a bottle she tucks safely beside his hip.

The time they’ve got isn’t much, but she’s careful as always, winding the coils around his wrists as he offers them to her, making a comfortable, snug cuff. Loops the rope around the middle, and then pushes his arms over his head. She sits on his chest as she secures the rope to the bedframe, leaning over him, her sternum in his face, the crescents under her breasts still damp with sweat too.

She leans back and he gives the rope a testing tug. Could tear it loose with one good pull but it doesn’t matter. It’s how it feels that matters. Nice and snug around his wrists. Be nice to have his ankles tied down too, but they don’t have that much time.

Carolina’s already tugging her workout pants off. Leaves his fatigues on, not even loosening his belt. “Close your eyes.”

He obeys.

The sharp tang of sweat is strong on her skin, and she tastes saltier when she brings her clit against his tongue. Rides his mouth hard, an almost needy pressure, movements tight and urgent, breath coming in short gasps, fingernails marking his scalp.

The pace is hers to keep, he just keeps his mouth moving against her, letting her rock down hard, and harder, against his lips and tongue until her thighs start tensing up and he knows she’s close. When she pushes hard against his face, he sucks, feeling her throb between his lips, and presses his tongue up into her in time to feel her muscles contract in a desperate rhythm his body takes in, aches to echo.

She catches herself against the wall with one hand, out of breath, before rising on trembling thighs away from his face. His jaw’s soaked from one ear to the other and she leans right down to kiss him, a full, deep kiss. Tongue on his tongue, tasting herself in his mouth.

A shudder of need runs down his spine.

She strokes his jaw approvingly and when he opens his eyes she’s staring at him, studying him like she’s trying to find something. He stares back, into those sharp green eyes, wondering if she’s finding it. Just as quick the look’s gone, she’s shifting to one side and dragging teasing fingers down his chest, finding her way to his belt buckle and tracing over the seam, testing his hardness through the fabric. He lets out a low growl of pleasure, aching for more touch, and she smirks. “Close ‘em.”

He shuts his eyes again.

Maine’s still thinking of the throb of her wet cunt against his mouth, less so about his own cock straining in a slick palm. Gonna be thinking about that for a while—even when the heat of her mouth and her soft, teasing licks on his cockhead startle a harsh groan out of him. The time they have isn’t much—they both need to armor up again before training—but it’s time enough for her to get two slick, gloved fingers inside him, time enough for the tight pressure of those finger and a loose fist tugging on his shaft to set him off shuddering with closed eyes and his bound wrists straining over his head.


	7. Match

It’s Wyoming's idea to go up against the new agent. Three on one, he says. You've gotta be kidding me, says York. That's just mean. Trust me on this one, mate, says Wyoming. We'll be lucky to take her with three.

Maine just grunts affirmatively.

He figures she'll be tough. The women always are. Like his mother, like the women of his childhood out on Mykolaev on the bare edge of human-occupied space. Good women, capable women, with a kindness in their eyes and a hardness in their jaw—women who know they have to be just a little bit tougher, smarter, and better than everyone else just to get the same respect. Not fair but it happens. Maine sees it. Not just in Carolina, either. He's seen the curl in South's lip when she moved down the board, the set of Connie's jaw when she sharpens her knives before a mission. Maine doesn't give much of a shit where he is in the line-up, long as he gets to fight. But the women care.

York keeps calling out orders to them. Maine ignores him because he can, because it's not a mission and York talks too much in general. Smiles too much. Can't trust a guy who smiles all the time and laughs at his own jokes. Heard some things too, even though there’s an unspoken understanding among the Freelancers that you don’t ask somebody how they got here. Not directly anyway, but people still talk and whispers say York would probably be in prison right now if he hadn't gotten sent to the program instead. Suppose Maine can't hold that part against him. Not like he hasn't done what he had to. Figure they all have. Still, York doesn't seem good enough to be a career criminal even if the board says so.

If anybody should be in charge it's Wyoming since he's the one who called the match in the first place, but Wy's never been much of a team player, and Maine doesn't lead. Doesn't mean he'll follow just anybody.

"Point Texas!"

All right. He was sloppy. He always overswings with the pugil sticks, doesn’t use enough control, relies on his size too much. He knows all that because Carolina’s told him, in countless training sessions, _Don’t throw off your balance, you’re overcompensating, stay in control, use the momentum to your advantage._

But with Carolina, he’d never land a hit. She’s too fast. Blocks or dodges every time.

He’s landing some today. They’re just not _doing_ anything.

The recruit hits like a goddamn tank. He’d know. Had to get half his armor plating replaced after that one time at Rat’s Nest. Hasn’t had his skull rattled like that since, but the series of blows that catch him off his balance after a failed overswing, finishing with a brutal hammer under his chin and knocking him clean off his feet—that comes damn close.

His ears are ringing as he climbs to his feet. The shaft of her broken stick rolls under his boot and the ring turns piercing as the room tilts. Whoa. That’s the floor again. Not where he meant to be.

This’ll be an interesting day.

 

Hand to hand should go better, at least. No matter how tough she is, he's got the advantage by size alone.

"Point Texas!"

Or maybe not.

What’s the story, York’s complaining, is he the only one on this team who knows how to talk. Maine snarls into the radio.

"I don’t think talking’s your problem."

A new voice on the comm. Smooth, cocky drawl. Shouldn’t be on their frequency. FILSS is supposed to keep the team chatter on isolated channels. Realistic. Enemy shouldn’t be on your comm channel in the field. They are, you’ve got a problem.

York sails past him and lands in a heap on the floor. Yeah. They’ve got a fucking problem all right.

Maine growls and lunges for her and for a minute or two they’re matched blow for blow, block for block. Fucking _matched_ , that alone’s a surprise. Carolina can backflip over his head with effortless grace, Wash can dart around him faster than he can turn and nail him between the eyes when he does, but Maine's never met his match in Freelancer in pure force. Never met another agent who can block a straight punch and then knock him off his feet.

Until today.

They’ve got an audience. He’s only just noticing now, but the observation window above them’s full of helmets looking down. South, Wash, and Connie lined up at the glass. Behind them, Betas, some crew. North. And Carolina. He spots the inscrutable tilt of that blue-green helmet out of the corner of his eye, and then there’s a vice grip on his wrist and he is inexplicably flying over the recruit’s black shoulder and then he’s climbing off of Wyoming who’s blustering and shoving at him.

Distracted. His own damn fault.

She backflips right the fuck over Wyoming—shit, like Carolina can do only she doesn’t move like Carolina. Lands like an anvil. She’s occupied with York so Wy gestures and Maine follows and they flank her from both sides. Useless. Like she’s got eyes everywhere. A fist in the teeth for Wyoming while Maine catches the bottom of her boot and eats the floor again. York follows, skidding on his face. The black-armored recruit stands over him for a moment, peering at him, almost curiously, before shrugging and turning away.

Forget a tank. She hits like a Hunter. Should tear that helmet off and get a look.

"Resetting the floor for lockdown paint scenario!" FILSS trills.

Fucking paint.

Even Wyoming’s looking a little winded as they hit the equipment table and lock and load. Fucking pistols. But maybe it’ll be easier to take her down at range.

York’s probably talking again, his helmet’s moving like he’s trying to get Maine’s attention but Maine’s ears are still tinny from that headknock and he muted York a few rounds back. No use if she’s listening in anyway. Least Wy has the courtesy to gesture. Not that it matters. Can’t see shit around FILSS’s cover scenario.

"Point Texas!"

The "paint" is AB foam, two compounds locked in separate compartments inside the round until they mix on impact and expand with an electrostatic charge. Locks down the armor’s circuitry, temporarily. A good hit’ll lock down the whole suit. Less good, just a limb. Wyoming gets tagged in the thigh and falls over flailing. Armor sends a signal to the neural lace when it locks down, makes you feel it. An annoyance. Not real. Maine’s used to the lockdown sting, the phantom tingling that lingers after a long session and a lot of hits. Happens a lot with Wash, who has his favorite sweet spots to aim for and hits them nearly every time.

Gonna be feeling this one for awhile.

The recruit doesn’t seem to like pistols much either. A few perfunctory shots and she’s right up close again, boot to the solar plexus sending Maine across the training room like a canon, shoulders and knees locked, toppling head over heels.

He’s fucking terrible about protecting his weapon hand, Maine knows that, Wash is always on him about it and he’s starting to wish he’d paid more attention because Texas always seems to land a pulse of foam to the wrist as soon as he’s got a clear shot.

It's not even that she fights dirty. More like she’s _bored_. Could shoot straight for the center mass every time, not like she ever fucking misses, and a good chest shot’ll lock down the whole suit. ‘Stead she goes for hands, legs, extremities.

York topples over, clutching at his codpiece.

Maine comes in swinging with one shoulder locked, uncontrolled, shitty form, can feel Carolina’s stare from above, _stay in control, don’t throw your weight just to throw it, don’t let her use it against you_ but his visual goes purple-black as foam smears over the visor. A shot she could’ve gotten three moves earlier. Didn’t bother.

She’s playing with them.

 

Eight rounds in. Wyoming shakes his head at Maine when he goes to reload. Maine cocks his helmet and Wy flashes a magazine at him. Not paint rounds. Live. Palms one off to Maine. "Straight from the old man himself. Don't look at me, mate." None for York, he notices.

Maine only hesitates a second before slamming it into his pistol.

York’s mad for real now. Grabs Wyoming’s shoulder. Heh. Mistake. Wy shakes him off with a deadly glare.

And the ammo doesn't actually help. Exactly why Maine hates pistols. Even live rounds aren't doing much against that sleek black shell—when they hit her at all. Couple sparks but she keeps moving like she doesn’t even feel it. Wonder what she looks like under that. She doesn't move like Carolina, not at all—Carolina works light, build for speed and grace, and this agent moves hard and heavy—but something about her's similar. Maybe just the sure and deadly force with which she strikes, not a shred of hesitation in her blows.

She hardly bothers with the pistol now. Charge in and immobilize. His style. Maine feels a rumble of jealousy, and almost looks up at Carolina again, but he doesn't. No distractions. Just fight.

York darts around, actively getting in their way. Gonna get tagged himself if he’s not careful. They’re wrecking the training floor, shattering the cover blocks and marking the walls with missed shots. And her? Barely a scratch. Nine fucking rounds of this. Whose fucking idea.

Texas has momentarily taken her eyes off them. She’s got her pistol in York’s face, barking something about abandoning his team, York’s hands raised in a gesture of retreat. Maine grinds his teeth. What team. Fuck both of them at this point.

Crouched behind the next pillar, Wyoming chuckles darkly and tosses Maine a grenade. Nods in their direction. Now.

What happens, happens fast.

Wy vaults over the cover block; Maine takes the ground route, coming in to flank as Wyoming leaps down from above. Texas catches him before he lands, has him on the ground in seconds. Lightweight.

Black boots fly in his face, pummel his breastplate, Maine staggers back but stays up, lunging back at her but she’s there and then she just _isn’t_ and his fist hits the pillar and a burst of foam swallows it to the wrist. Maine yanks furiously, arm rigid in the armor as Texas goes for York, who’s still doing that trying to help thing. For all the good it does him.

They’ve got her riled, finally. The recruit’s cocky swagger is becoming an aggravated stride, and when Wyoming charges again she pelts his armor in purple foam before slamming him through a cover pillar, shards littering the floor.

Maine growls, feels the foam crackle and splinter as he finally yanks his hand free. His knuckles burn and tingle as the lockdown releases. She’s got her back to him. Thinks the fight’s over.

The block Wyoming’s got his head wedged in is already cracked clean in two. Running start, shoulder thrown into it and the material blasts apart, sending Wyoming flying, still in lockdown. York skids in a heap of debris. Texas, though. She _ducks_ it. No way she could’ve seen that coming but she’s ready for it, tucking and rolling and springing up again to meet him.

Maine’s hissing between his teeth, furious now, damn it it shouldn’t be _possible_ for somebody to move that fast _and_ hit that hard.

Got that grenade in his hand.

Dual pistols gleaming under the training floor lights, she has York’s and her own, and he knows exactly how fucked he is even before stinging bursts of foam smear across his sternum and his throat. Left elbow, arm stuck mid swing. Right shoulder. Shit. The familiar cramp and strain of immobility that his muscles fight fight fight even as they burn. His body doesn’t _stop_ , the momentum doesn’t halt just because the armor locks.

And he’d like to blame the grenade on that but he can’t. Still knew what he was goddamnwell doing half a second earlier when he was yanking that pin.

It isn’t a _good_ throw, he’s already lost most of the mobility in his shoulder when that black boot in his chest sends him slamming backwards into a pillar and it’s skull-rattling enough after that earlier knock with the stick but he doesn’t _have_ to let go, even as his arm swings forward.

He lets it fly.

She dodges it. Of course. Not even a dodge. Tips her head to the side to let it go by. Shitty throw. Useless.

From his angle he doesn’t see where the others have landed until Texas turns.

Maine hears paint shots, and then the blast, and then it’s Carolina’s voice calling for a medical team. Everything going to chaos, the others swarming down from the balcony while he and Wy are still in lockdown. Anytime now, FILSS. The rigid joints release and he pitches forward, sprawling ungracefully on the floor as the med team surges in, and Carolina snarls at them to hurry up.

Some shit rookie medic decides to ignore the busted locksmith smoldering on the floor and come after Maine instead. White hands trying to touch him. "Get off me," Maine growls, taking an instinctive swing with his tingling shoulder and the kid scampers. Maine climbs to his feet, pulling chunks of foam out of the seams of his armor and cracking his neck back and forth.

York’s armor’s singed black all along one side. Helmet viciously cracked, bits of purple foam sticking all over. Carolina at his side, telling him to hang in there.

She looks up, just once, visor coming even with Maine’s and he can’t read the look before it’s gone.

Director charging into the middle of them all, too quick—he’s been watching, somewhere they couldn’t see him. They should all be ashamed of themselves, he expects them to act as a team, he’s right in their faces, so that even Maine reels back. Wash blurts, live ammo on the training floor, sir, that's against regulations. Yeah, regulations. Maine shoots a look at Wyoming, unreadable as always. Straight from the old man himself. Yeah. Regulations.

The Director’s in Wash’s face now. Does he think their enemies will care about regulations on the battlefield. Maine grunts. Why bother with all the paint shit in the first place then.

Connie’s helmet tilts smugly in Wash’s direction. Don’t forget to check his place on that list. Maine shakes his head slowly.

The fuck were the last few hours.

The medics are loading York onto a stretcher. He's good and out. Maine sighs. Act as a team. They didn't. Would it have made a difference? He watches the new agent limp out, shoving off the two medics who flank her. Shoulder sparks. Never seen armor do that. Different model, maybe, or some new mod. Might explain a few things.

The Director dismisses them and Maine takes off to hit the shower before Wyoming can catch up.

But it’s not Wy who follows him into the locker room, catching the door before it can close. Not Carolina either. "Maine. _Maine,_ wait up."

Wash. "The hell was that all about?"

Maine shrugs.

"I’m fucking—Maine, come on."

He shakes his head.

Didn’t mean to hit him. Not that it matters.

The door swings and Wyoming stalks past them, muttering to himself. Something about being had.

 

He’s angry, still, and turns the water down cold as it’ll go, icy shocks down his neck and back. Wyoming’s in and out quick, re-armored and gone. Maine stands under the spray for a while until the water pressure starts to drop, the ship’s not-so-friendly-reminder to quit jerking off in there and get out.

He yanks the curtain aside, screeching on its rings. Rubs himself dry with the rough towel. Half the squad's clustered in the locker room muttering and there are eyes on him as he walks out of the showers, which normally would irritate him but he’s pretty high on irritation already so it doesn’t change much. Maine stalks down the row of lockers naked and helmets turn away. North's is the last to look away from him.

 

His last training session for day’s lockdown paint. He blows it off. FILSS chirps with reminders in his helmet radio. He mutes her.

 

Carolina finds him in the weight room. She doesn’t look at the Betas that goggle at her, _Agent Carolina, Alpha Squad Leader_ , just walks down between the rows of machines to the back, where the free weights are.

Maine lets down the barbell he’s been lifting in a slow curl, keeping it in his palm but resting on his knee. She sighs and takes a seat on the bench besides him, looking straight ahead, not at him. Her helmet’s off, face creased with worry. He inhales, dragging up words for the second time in a day.

"How bad?"

"Docs were able to get most of the shrapnel out." She pauses. "Left eye probably won’t ever be the same."

Her face keeps changing. Not sure whether she’s being Squad Leader or just her. Or, no. _She’s_ not sure. Not sure which one to be.

He waits.

"Who gave you the ammo?"

"Wyoming."

She huffs, then glances at him, realizes he’s serious. "Where’d he get it? The Director?"

"Said so."

She exhales. Can’t tell if that’s the answer she wants or not. "Right."

"Sorry."

"What?" She’s looking at him now. "You didn’t hit him on purpose?"

He shakes his head.

"And the Director gave you the ammo. The grenades."

Nods yes.

A long silence passes between them. Maine flexes his hand around the barbel, the metal warm in his palm.

"It was an accident." Her voice softens just a hair.

An accident.

Feels wrong. He’s heard Carolina dress down members of her squad. For insubordination, for just plain fucking up. It doesn’t sound like this. She isn’t being Squad Leader right now. Don’t know how he feels about that.

_"Sorry."_

The word comes out forceful. Her glance is a little startled, but her eyes narrow. She gives a short nod.

"Okay," she says, and stands from the bench, leaving him to his weights.

 

* * *

 

Things get quiet between them for a while. Not the regular kind of quiet. He waits. She’ll come to him when she wants to. They have a few training sessions together, low-level missions, usual stuff. Carolina is Carolina, Squad Leader Carolina and Maine’s fine with that. Do what she needs to do. Don’t want to see that trouble in her eyes again.

Then one evening she shows up at his quarters, just like that, a knock on the door and a nod when he answers and her eyes are soft again, looking up at him. For a second they flit behind him, acknowledging Wash, who is bent over a datapad very carefully not acknowledging either of them.

She gives her head a quick tilt in the direction of her room, and he nods and follows her.

 

Her door sighs closed behind them and Carolina sighs, too, the muscles in her shoulders rolling slowly as they rise and fall under her black workout tank. The smell of sweat still faintly drifts off her as Maine halts at her back.

She takes her hair down as she turns, somehow extracting the elastic from the high knot in a single fluid tug and letting it all fall messily over her shoulders. She rubs fingers in her scalp. Maine extends a hand in question. She looks surprised, for some reason, and then she nods toward her bed.

The bunk gives the usual groan when Maine sets himself on it, back against the wall, and Carolina adds her smaller weight in front of him. Permission given, he buries his fingers in her hair.

She sighs again, deeper and longer, as he starts to rub her scalp. His hands are big, fingertips blunt and calloused. Scratchy. Good for this. The sound she makes when he hits a particular spot is almost a moan, and then it _is_ a moan as he rubs it again deliberately. He scratches her crown and behind her ears, rubs the base of her skull more gently with his thumbs. Her hair's slightly damp at the roots. The rigidity’s softening out of her spine, and he slides his hands slowly down her neck, makes a questioning noise. Her shoulders shrug up into his touch. "God, yeah. Yes." He massages deep into the knots, gets lost in the texture of her muscles in his hands. The breadth of her shoulders. His are nearly double. But so much power in hers. She’s safe in his big hands, and not because he’s gentle.

Carolina flops back against his chest at last, signaling the end of the massage, and he rests his nose sidelong against her hair enjoying the smell of her until she reaches up, behind her, lazily cupping his jaw. He’s the one who sighs now. Closes his eyes.

"Good work," she says, satisfaction in her voice.

He rumbles a wordless pleasure into her hair, warm with her praise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult but surprisingly enjoyable chapter to write. Massive thanks to the people who responded to [this post](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/69547273864/has-anyone-done-any-kind-of-analysis-of-carolinas) on tumblr when I was flailing around for help with combat styles, most especially [completelysane](http://completelysane.tumblr.com/post/69551535975/anneapocalypse-has-anyone-done-any-kind-of) and [themumblybee](http://themumblybee.tumblr.com/post/69550271473) who provided some really helpful insight and pointed me to some great Monty Oum commentary on the subject.
> 
> Extra thanks to Mr. Apocalypse with whom I end up talking out every single combat scene I write.
> 
> All remaining fuck-ups and inadequacies are of course on me!
> 
> As an added note, I want to thank everyone who has commented on this fic thus far! Reading your comments and getting a sense for how the fic is coming across chapter by chapter is so incredibly helpful to me and sometimes provides some insight for things to revise or write in as it goes on. I really cannot say enough thanks, but most of all, thanks for reading.


	8. Briefing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for explicit descriptions of childhood bullying including physical violence.

“—sure we shouldn’t send South with Team B, sir?”

“—system will determine the teams, Agent—”

Maine leans against the wall of the War Room and crosses his arms, bored. Briefing’s late to start. They’re all here, circling the holotable, except for Florida who hangs back chattering to Niner, and South who’s nowhere to be seen. CT leans on the table, drumming her fingers against the shiny black surface. Carolina’s still in with the Director. Maine catches a few words through the half-closed door. Nothing interesting.

She emerges a minute later, the Director with her.

Mission briefs are noisy. Everyone talking, asking questions. The Director drawls about the importance of the mission, but Maine pays more attention when he hands the floor to Carolina.

She swells with pride, restrained swagger in her hips as she approaches the holotable. Maine watches her deft fingers manipulate the 3D map, and commits it to memory. Easier to hold than words. The skyscraper nestled in the middle of a curving labyrinth of freeway. An urban environment. They haven’t done much work in cities. Moons, asteroids, remote outposts. Maine’s seen some urban combat before Freelancer. Ground skirmishes and evac right before watching the place burn, usually. Be different to work in a city that’s not falling to pieces around them. Nice for a change.

Two objectives, two teams. When she assigns Maine to her team he doesn’t blink, but it’s good. They work well together.

 

Didn’t think he’d ever have someone he could call a partner. Somebody who works with you, not just next to you. He isn’t the kind of person people work with. They more make use of him. Kovalenko, the tank. Point him to what needs killing. Go here, flank there, back up, suppress, clear a path. Was like that in Infantry. Freelancer’s different but that much is mostly the same. They don’t talk like he’s there in the room with them. Wouldn’t expect it. Never needed to be seen like he was human. Humanity’s mostly garbage anyway. Only here he is now, fighting for it. Funny how things work out.

He wasn't always big. No one believes it but he was an average size kid, maybe even small. He's not sure. Knew he felt small on the pavement with boots in his ribs and blood in his mouth. And even when he shot up to six feet and kept going he didn't feel big for a long time. Didn't think that blow should’ve rattled a guy’s skull, put him in the hospital. And suddenly, after all those years, suddenly silent little Andriy was a big scary motherfucker and people were afraid of him and he was angry, because no one ever gave a shit when he was the one getting beaten helpless behind the gym but suddenly he bounced a few heads off some lockers and now he was trouble.

It felt good, too, though. Being scary. Being angry. After that one time none of the other kids fucked with him anymore. Didn't have any friends either but he never expected that.

The war was bad, had always been bad and only got worse and the UNSC didn’t look too close at the age he put down on the piece of paper that got him off that shitty planet, less than a year before the broken down port city he grew up in disappeared under a battery of Covenant plasma. Wasn’t until a few years later that Freelancer picked him up and gave him a new name along with the bright new armor. Agent Maine. He put it on whole, the armor and the name and no one ever called him Andriy Ivanovich after that. Good fucking riddance. The name of a scared little shit and the name of a vicious bastard whose name he never wanted in the first place. Only one person worth saving in that family. (When he thinks of his old name at all he thinks of it in her voice, _Andryusha_ , the only time it ever felt ok.)

Infantry gave him a battle rifle and a platoon. Point him to what needs killing. In Freelancer he got a squad. You’re not just a tank here, she said. But more than that. Found something else with her.

 

Wash will have to pull lockpick duty, Carolina says. Maine cocks his helmet. Wonder if that’s Carolina’s call, or the Director’s. CT gives Carolina a long look but doesn’t say anything. Not about that.

“Hey. Don’t be so quick to give away my job.”

All their helmets swivel to the doorway.

York. Out of the infirmary. Waiting at the door for the right moment to drop that line probably.

How’s the eye, Carolina says. It’s okay, says York. Maine watches him as he sidles up to the holotable, with that usual easy confidence. Suppose he's relieved to see that. Didn’t mean to hit him. Not that it matters. His fault. And they need York, Maine damn well knows that. Wash is sharp and a good engineer but he’s no locksmith.

“Look, I’m happy to see him too.” Wash’s tone is uneasy. “But this mission… I don’t know.” Maine eyes him. Wash knows something they don’t, maybe. Maybe he's been to see York since. Maine sure hasn't.

“If York says he’s good, then he’s good,” says Carolina, and York says something to her, quieter, and she gives him a look Maine can’t read. But the Director interrupts, it’s settled then. York will join Team A. Carolina's gaze lands on Maine, just for a moment.

Maine shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Nods. Hope he’s good.

“We drop in twenty,” Carolina says, and the holotable goes dark. “We’ve got a job to do, team. Let’s do it right and come home safe.”


	9. Sarcophagus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Graphic descriptions of canon injuries.

The Pelican swings low in the roar of atmospheric burn, and Maine turns his head to watch through the open cockpit door--Niner always leaves it open, unless somebody’s pissing her off--as they descend beneath a reddened layer of cloud. A a long rippling stretch of water comes into view. Beyond it, city skyline coming up fast, peaking in a mass of skyscrapers. An urban environment. Niner pulls up as they approach, weaving between buildings, and Maine thinks about what kind of mission this is, exactly—what kind of _city_ this is, that two birds descending from orbit isn’t cause for alarm. City accustomed to military drops. Not for Covenant or it’d all be glass by now. Insurrectionists. Why they’re here. He hears Carolina up front on the radio with North, the _sync_ that starts all their mission clocks running.

York’s gone unnaturally quiet, but his fingers are moving against his thighs, tracing, tapping, drumming. It’s irritating until Maine realizes what he’s doing: running through lockpick patterns and techniques in his head while they wait.

Hope he’s good.

 

They drop at the foot of the tallest skyscraper in a cluster, and Niner yells an unsubtle “See you soon!” after them as they leap out the back and onto the concrete. Carolina marks an entrance through the parking garage on their HUDs. “Let’s move.”

York has them past the outer security panel in no time and the elevator shoots them skyward at what seems like an unsafe speed. Maine’s stomach drops and he sees York’s fingers twitch restlessly again as the box slows, finally, and comes to a halt. Carolina shoots York a look but says nothing.

“No stop on the vault level,” she says, marking more waypoints for them. “Got two more doors and a stairwell in between.”

The stairwell is guarded. Carolina gives Maine the nod and he knocks the guards’ helmets together. Now the stairwell is unguarded.

Maine reviews the layout again as York goes to work on the lock. Weird place for a vault. You put that shit underground, not level 85 of a 110-story building. He thinks about the moon bunker, the dead elevator. Well. Maybe wouldn’t rather be underground.

Holographic, York murmurs. High end. His gloved fingers slide into the hologram. Can’t imagine how you do that, light and air, nothing to feel. Maine turns, taking a lookout stance. Pistol in hand, for show mostly. Anything makes it past Wash’s midrange, won’t need a weapon to take it down.

They watch the stairwell. Carolina watches York. York talks while he picks. Wonder if he has to do that, if it helps him concentrate. If he’s nervous.

“Whoever designed this is a genius,” York mutters to no one in particular. To himself. Admiringly, Maine thinks. Maybe just showing off. But he’s got that tone Carolina gets sometimes--that kind of focused fascination, like when she’s studying intel or tactics.

Flashes of red reflect off the walls, and an alarm wails.

“I take it back. Whoever designed this is an _asshole.”_ York has the alarm silenced within a couple of seconds, but that’ll be enough. Maine scans the stairwell. Something’ll be coming, now. Just a matter of when. He glances over his shoulder. Tension in Carolina’s stance says she’s thinking the same. “Thanks, York. But do something about that alarm system. We don’t need any more surprises.”

“Does saying sorry count as something?” York’s tone turns on a dime. This one, more familiar. That one when he’s trying to get out of trouble. Talking that way to Carolina, who just tilts her visor at him in what’s unmistakably a glare. Maine sighs irritably and takes a step away from them, casting one last look down the stairwell. York’s slip-up is his fault, likely as not. The eye. Still. Talking that way to Carolina. Sets his teeth on edge.

 

“Take as many scans as possible,” Carolina says as the three of them move into the vault, York having scampered off to find them an exit on her order. “There may be other things we can use.”

It’s more gallery than storage, high-ceilinged and airy with long soundproofing panels along the flanking walls and nothing but window opposite the door. All that glass. Strange for a vault. Weapons and artifacts lie on tables and pedestals, Covie tech everywhere, a Revenant suspended from the ceiling. HUD pings with Waypoint data on everything, _Plasma Rifle, Plasma Pistol, Needler._ Maine blinks past the text but lingers on the schematics as they roll past his eyes. Those unmistakable shapes and colors, alien and enemy. What the Innies want with it all, Maine doesn’t know. Members of the UNSC loyal to the Insurrection. Traitors then. Wonder what they want with it.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is what they can do with it.

And, oh.

A Covenant grenade launcher with sleek dark casing and a viciously beautiful curved blade arching away from the barrel. Brute shot, they call it. Maine’s seen these but always from the wrong end. He lets out a low, rumbling breath of admiration as he lifts it off the table, tests its weight. Balance is a little off, it’s not built for humans, but he can compensate. Too good to pass up. Wash cocks his head. “That’s a good look.” Maine grunts in agreement. His now.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Carolina linger over the plasma weaponry, caressing the sleek blue barrel of a rifle before collecting one for each hand. Mm. Good look.

Wash’s glance bounces between the two of them, and he gives his head a brief shake before getting back to business. He waves Carolina over. Found the objective. Maine follows.

“How are we going to get that thing up to the roof?” Carolina says grimly, eyeing the sarcophagus. Some kind of sealed crate. Maine comes closer to see. There’s a readout window, though it’s dark.

Cryo storage. He’d bet money.

Probably best they don't know what’s in there.

Carolina’s talking with York, who’s on the roof, finding them an exit. Hope it goes better than their entrance. Sparks at the vault door say they’re about to have company.

Carolina cocks her head and leans into her walk the way she does when she’s got an idea. He knows it so well he can practically see the smirk under her helmet when she says, “C’mere, Maine,” the command in her voice knifing quick and sharp down his spine.

He follows as Carolina raises her head, aims twin blue barrels at the window, and fires a precise row of plasma blasts near the top edge of the pane. Glass liquefies where the bolts strike, sheeting down molten over itself. Ah. Bullets would shatter, draw more attention from outside. Carolina fires another row of blasts, finishing off the bottom half of the pane, glinting in the reddish light as it slakes off the sill. Open air. A breeze cuts in, pushing the acrid smell of burnt glass through their air filters. Burnt glass, and burning metal. Oh. That’s from behind. The vault door wavering, glowing blue at the seam, more sparks shooting down. “Better hurry,” Wash calls.

She quick steps back to the sarcophagus and shoves it across the floor and straight out onto the window washing rig, sliding the rail shut with a metallic squeak. The rig sways slightly away from the side of the building and back with a soft thud. Maine thinks about that service elevator again.

“Maine,” Carolina’s saying, “this should work fine.”

She’s messing with the cables on the rig, tips her head out to look up and up the length of the building, nods to herself. Snags a carabiner off her grappler and hooks it to the cable. Her voice softens just slightly as she turns back to him. “You’re the only one heavy enough to counterbalance.”

Maine isn’t arguing that one.

He glances down over the ledge to the crosshatched blur of the city streets below. Long drop. Lot longer than that elevator shaft.

“Too high,” he grumbles.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” she retorts. Thread of tension at the back of her voice, one eye on the buckling seam of the vault door growing blue with heat, Wash at the ready to cover. Her hand connects with the small of his back, though. Pressure enough to feel it through the suit. She steps forward to his side and looks up at him, and the tilt of her helmet is familiar, a question. Okay?

He only hesitates a second before he nods back. Winds his hand around the cable, feeling it hard and solid in his gloved palm. Okay.

She nods back, satisfied, locks the carabiner into the front of his armor with a sharp click and he inhales right before she puts her boot in his back.

His breath exits his lungs and he falls like a rock.

And they all think he’s the tough one.

 

Glass and glass and glass, HUD blandly reporting his downward acceleration, ground still a long way off but there’s a ledge coming up, enough lip to catch himself and Maine leans, letting his weight swing outward from the building and the momentum carry him back in.

Armor’s shock absorbers take the brunt of the landing. Still hard but he tucks, rolls, breathes through the g-force slam and blur, instinct carrying him to his feet before his eyes refocus. Gravity’s never kind to him but this isn’t Earth g, at least—closer to Mars, the HUD tells him, not that he’s ever been on Mars but he has a vague sense of what that means.

He’s on a garage level. Not the one they came in on—still a good forty stories up or so. Package should’ve made it to the top. She’ll take care of it. All he's got to contend with now is—

“Stop right there or we'll... shoot? Uh, we're gonna need bigger handguns. Is-is that a knife? Rifle? Knifle?”

Maine swings his new toy off his back and revs her up. Time to have some fun.

Beast of a kickback but worth it for the firepower. Maine cleans up the first wave of Innies with just a couple of shots and is just starting to feel disappointed when the next wave pours in from the far side, each blast scattering them in panicked clusters between the rows of vehicles.

He can still hear the others on the helmet radio but he’s more or less tuned them out until the floor shakes. Really shakes, rattles, a hundred and ten stories of steel and concrete rattling, above and below and all around him. Maine hits the concrete, spreading his weight in the few seconds’ delay before the shockwave hits. Glass rains down the side of the building. Rumble only grows from above.

Maine growls, climbing to his feet.

“This must be karma for kicking Maine out the window.”

“I don’t wanna do this!”

Shit. Bailing off the roof. Only one reason they’d do that. Whole place is coming down. Their ride better be on the way. They’ll make it. She’ll make it. He knows that. But if he can help...

Maine scans the garage. Might be things he can use.

 

Warthogs aren’t the fastest but they’re durable as hell. No question he can make the jump if he floors it, but from where. Garage level forty stories up, must have an exit onto the tangle of freeway. Maine throws himself into a hog, pulling up the diagram from the briefing for reference, though it’s still pretty clear in his head. Seems like this is one of those things where an AI would come in handy. Only get one shot at this. There’s the stairwell to the roof, where they came up, odds are they’re coming off this side and with the voices on the radio coming sharper by the second, but shit, the angle. Shoot straight out from the building and he’ll go straight off the other side of the freeway, if he hits it at all.  

Maine growls and floors it toward the exit off the west side of the building, smashing through the gate and pulling out onto the long curved ramp. Guessed right. Can see them falling, bright blue and gold in the bronze sky, spread-eagle to slow the fall. Have to cut off the edge, catch them in the curve, hit the lower stretch of road that runs parallel to the building, correct right but not too much—

That guardrail’s a problem. Maine unshoulders the brute shot, one hand on the wheel as he screeches around the curve of the ramp on two tires, and puts a couple of grenades through the fencing up ahead on the right. Problem solved.

The big off-road tires climb what’s left of the concrete barrier pretty good, maintaining acceleration as Maine sails off the freeway. Don’t look down. He looks up instead, just for second, and then Carolina catches hold of the gunner turret, swinging wildly on it as they arc, and York just manages to grab the frame and flip himself into the passenger seat. The force of their landing throwing the hog off course a little and Maine has to correct hard when they hit the pavement, sending an unlucky car spinning as they skid, bouncing off one barrier and then the other. The deafening roar in his ears isn’t just engine and road noise. Whole place coming down. Don’t look back. Even with the Warthog’s lousy acceleration they’re well over the speed limit by now and Maine’s focused on weaving through traffic without slamming them into the barrier on either side.

Carolina’s on the radio with North again, Maine can’t make out a lot but B’s down, he gets that much, and they need to get the secondary. Heading their way. Not much time. “We’ll cut him off at that overpass!” Carolina barks. “Go, _go!”_

Maine screeches by a tractor trailer and pulls off the exit. Takes the curving ramp on two wheels and slams them to a skull-rattling stop at the edge of the overpass where the ramp crosses the freeway. He hops out of the driver’s seat and scans the road. York’s marked it on his HUD, a moving dot. There. Driver’s as bald as he is. Easy to spot. Catches the light. Alone in the vehicle, not even a guard detail, nodding his head like he’s got music playing in there, oblivious to everything. Thinks he’s safe, with whatever happened to Team B. Heh. Think again.

Maine tips a glance toward Carolina to see her nod, then vaults over the guardrail and onto the car, cratering the hood with both feet as he lands. Sunlight glares off baldy’s shades before Maine plants the thick curved blade in his chest.

Didn’t feel a thing. Too bad. Maine shoulders the weapon and grabs the case in one hand and the wheel in the other, steering the fishtailing car off the road as York pulls the hog up alongside. For the first time since the jump Maine looks up. Sees about what he expected. Skyscraper’s gone, a thick plume of smoke where it stood. Air’s heavy with it, gritty, HUD readings picking up a lot of particulate, debris. The fuck happened up there. Have to ask her about it later.

Traffic’s died down a bit. Not good for them. City’ll be locked down in minutes.

“Nice work, Maine,” Carolina says with an approving nod as he swings the briefcase onto his back, clinking as it locks onto the magnetized plating.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

York makes a crack about subtle as always and Maine refrains from punching him out of the driver’s seat because they are on a mission. This is why he doesn’t talk. Response team’s probably on the way, York says, pulling back into traffic. No shit. Who does he think’s tearing down the freeway after them.

York pulls off in a hard swerve, still chattering pointlessly, narrowly weaving through traffic as the roar of two hornets descends over them in a canopy of harsh, hot noise. Carolina calls out a warning as enemy soldiers fall in a swarm. Jetpacks.

Carolina takes gunner, swinging around to open fire, and Maine follows her, scattering the swarm with a few grenades, driving them into her fire.“Maine, protect the briefcase!” she orders and Maine feels it light on the maglock of his armor, but at the edge of his vision, sees something else.

He stops thinking and _sees_ , only sees—the way he could see the arc of the Warthog’s path up and off the freeway crossing the falling path of Carolina and York—he sees the red line, the path of a bullet, a split second forward in time—he sees it, the sniper sight and its target, her aquamarine helmet, bright against the dull red sky. Doesn’t think.

He only sees, and moves.

It hits him like a heartbeat amplified, a one-two percussive slam square in the chest. Breath blown from his lungs, the feeling like his chest caving in, vision whiting out. Can’t breathe can’t breathe and his whole body burns with the force of trying.

He’s reeled back from the impact, only the top of the hog’s frame holding him upright until the speed they’re moving overcomes the momentum from the shot and he collapses forward, fingers into fists, trying to feel his own hands, blood roaring furiously in his ears. _Breathe_ , damn it.

Her voice is in his ear, his name, dropping low and scared only for that split second syllable before she yells “Sniper!” and drops down beside him, out of the line of fire. Safe.

His lungs tear in a thin, wheezing strip of air finally and the roar of jetfire screams right over him. She’s up again, shouts phase in and out of his hearing, grenade blasts, no not grenades. Rockets. Rockets? Feels for the briefcase on his back, tries to push himself back up and harsh blots of white burst into his vision again and he feels himself forced back down, by gravity or by somebody’s boot he can’t tell. Hands scramble against the frame of the windshield, trying to move. Get up Maine get up Maine get _up_.

Lungs suck in another breath, a better one, and he drags himself upright in time to see Carolina in the air, diving from the warthog onto a flatbed screaming past them in the right lane.  Maine scrambles upright, bracing himself between the seat and the hog’s frame as York keeps pace with the flatbed, ducking a barrel that bounces off the windshield and goes tumbling into traffic. York yells a warning. On his left. Maine ducks, turning to look as a couple of blasts sail over his head. Another flatbed. The sniper.

York swerves the hog into the side of the truck, sending the bed swinging, throwing the sniper off. Fires his jets, recovers, swings back around to come at them. Right into Maine’s fist, force amps at max, and the fucker bounces down the asphalt. Good riddance.

York’s still hollering warnings as he pulls up alongside the other flatbed but Maine’s watching Carolina and the enemy soldier. The package. Carolina has it now, on her back. Maine shoves off and dive-tackles one of the Innies, rolls to his feet, throws a punch. Overswings. Fucker dodges, kicks, sloppy, not like Carolina’s kicks, but enough to send him reeling back, and then he feels contact. Carolina at his back.

She leans into him on her own momentum, righting his balance. He feels the briefcase lock to his back, feels her maglocks release. Swear he can feel them breathe in sync, one, two, steady, and he feels the movement of her body preparing to spring forward and when she goes, he’s ready too.

Two of them, two of the Innies.

York yells and chucks the brute shot from the hog. It's Carolina who catches it, leaning into its arc, using the momentum, and for someone who doesn’t do heavy weapons, he’s never seen anything like the flip she executes with it in hand, driving that long curved blade straight through her target for a finisher.

A sharp gleam of metal in the air and then Maine’s opponent has a pistol in his hand.

Maine grabs for it, they grapple and a shot strikes his helmet, low, near the chin, and though it doesn’t penetrate, his HUD reports damage and it throws him off balance, just enough and then he’s slammed on his back, boot on his chest, staring down the barrel.

Maine knows you can’t see bullets in motion, knows time doesn’t really slow down when you’re staring down death, but he swears he counts them, an uneven cadence  _one two, three four five s_ _ix seven, eight_  and he hears her scream, too, raw and harsh in his ears, before the pain starts strangling him, before he tastes blood and chokes on it and hears a sick gurgle inside his helmet where his throat should be.

 

She’s alone. Two against one. No.

Get up Maine get up Maine get _up_.

A flash of black metal at his side. She’s left him his weapon. Breathing burns like nothing has ever burned, and he’s pretty sure he’s pulling blood and pieces of his trachea into his lungs but he has to get up he has to breathe fucking _hell_ and he has the brute shot in his hands, and sliding the grenades into the chamber already feels like instinct. Two. He has two left. Can’t shoot the goons, too close to her. He blasts just past the corner of the flatbed instead.

The blast knocks the truck askew, swerving left and right and it’s a damn good thing traffic’s thinned out though that almost definitely means they’re getting close to one of the road checkpoints—and that’s when a car t-bones them and the truck jack-knifes and they’re all flying.

She’s behind him, behind him, he has the case, no she has it, and he’s tumbling over the asphalt and a truck comes up real fast but York catches her in the hog and she’s okay and the last thing Maine knows is she’s okay before he slams into a black wall of pain that flattens his lungs empty again.

 

The sky is red. The bright flash of his HUD’s red too, can’t read it, just flash flash flash and warning voice in his ears, FILSS but not FILSS, the fragment of her voice that follows them into the field. He is falling falling falling and yet the sky doesn’t seem to be moving and for a long moment he thinks he’s falling into the sky, into the mottled red and gray shrouding the city, and it’s cold, not hot like you’d think with all that blood in it, cold gray seeping into his armor, fogging up his helmet.

Impact again, hard landing, uneven, tumbling over himself with a wrenching momentum. Breathing is agony. Coughing. Blood. Lot of it. Biofoam would seal off his airway. Suffocate him. He's already suffocating. That sky is trying to smother him.

The red glare of daylight flattens to a line and then to shadow. Voices. Hands. Last thing he remembers is Wash’s voice—don’t move, don’t move, he can’t anyway—cutting raggedly through the gray-and-copper cloud before it swallows him, and all the noise and heat falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks to [swordserbuddy](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/97966179696/your-breakdown-of-maine-was-brilliant-and-it-got) on tumblr who suggested to me that Maine might have an innate knack for math and/or geometry, a concept that helped me a lot in the revisions of this chapter.


	10. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Moderately graphic description of injuries and medical shit following those injuries including tracheotomy, IVs, etc. Also deals with medical phobia of needles and anesthetic and the like.

She tells him he woke up five times.

There’s a fog still clinging to him, not the red-gray of the city sky but a soft white haze that makes him feel strange, makes the pain radiating from his throat and his jaw feel disembodied, like it’s someone elses. Waking—at least, the time he remembers—he’s clenching into fists already, struggling, twisting, trying to push up through the cloud, balling into one giant fist of fury as a memory breaks through—the enemy soldier with the pistol, how the _fuck_ did he let some Innie shitbag get the jump on him like that, never again—

"Maine. Maine."

Hands on his shoulders, holding him down. Shouldn’t be able to—

“Easy.”

His eyes trying to focus. Her eyes. Green.

Her hand on his chest, and he remembers—

Choking. The feeling like choking, but he’s breathing now but it’s wrong. Not breathing through his mouth or his nose. Pulling air in through some kind of valve in his neck. Higher up, throat feels strange, tight, like there’s something stuck in there. An IV line snakes into his arm. Shit stuck in him everywhere. His chest tightens with a feeling halfway between rage and panic and he feels his hands jerk to tear at them before he can even think but her hands are on his wrists now, holding them down.

“ _Easy_ ,” she says again, leaning over him to hold both arms, her brow indented with worry. “You already tried to rip everything out the first time you woke up.”

The first time.

She strokes his wrist gently with her thumb, settling herself on the edge of the bed, warm against his hip. “Do you remember?”

What he remembers is the flatbed, the freeway, the sniper. The briefcase. Passing it between them, back to back. The weight of the brute shot in his hands. Wonder if it came back with them. He’d like to keep that.

He woke up five times, she says. (Anesthesia. They fucking put him under. Stuck all this shit in him.) Don’t remember any of that. Just the freeway, and falling into the sky, and then this.

“They called me after the first,” she adds, softening her touch on his wrists, not totally letting go. Don’t want her to. Her hands feel good. Safe. He focuses on the pressure of her hold, trying to ignore the crawling feeling under his skin. “Got them to take you off the vent. You’ve been breathing okay on your own.”

How long?

“Thirteen hours,” she says, and he’s starting to see more clearly. The dark circles under her eyes, her skin blotchy, makeup worn off—but gray smudges along her lashes. Gray sweatpants, tank top. Thirteen hours. She says it quick, and he realizes she knows exactly how long it’s been. Every minute. “Since we docked, I mean. Niner picked you up. We were out there a while longer.”

He arches an eyebrow. She nods. “We got it.”

Good. Knew she would. He nods back, but she looks away, a strange coldness in her eyes, not pride like he expected.

“You went straight into surgery. Zero-g because your trachea was collapsing.” Her hands tighten on him a little. She looks up. Stares right into his eyes. “You got lucky. Two of the bullets missed your spine by a hair. You almost bled out, though. You know you’re a rare type?”

He nods. Shudders. Had a transfusion once before. Fucking needles. Hates the feel of it. Can’t start thinking about that IV. Start getting that crawling feeling under his skin and it won’t stop.

“Wash offered.” She’s caressing his wrists, fingers traveling up his arm to the elbow on one side, carefully avoiding the IV on the other. “Apparently he’s a universal donor.” Wash. Maine remembers. In the Pelican. _Don’t move._ _Come on, hang in there, buddy._ A hazy piece of memory surfaces, the sensation of moving in the dark, Wash’s voice close and getting further away. _Typical medic bullshit_. The Director’s drawl, somewhere far away. _Disappointing_ —

He feels a growl build in his chest, but he can't get it past the thing in his throat.

"You can't talk," she says quietly, and Maine snorts, or tries to, and pain rips through the upper part of his throat and she sees him flinch. There's no humor in the smile that flickers over her face, gone as quick as it appears, but she knows. He doesn't care about talking. He just wants to get out of this bed.

“There’s a stent in your larynx,” she says quietly. “They put most of it back together. It’ll heal, you’ll get the trach out before too long. But you probably won’t talk again. One of the bullets went up into your jaw. You probably can’t move it much.” He can’t. The pulsating ache in the side of his face is still distant, fuzzy, but it gets clearer when he focuses on it. His mouth tight, almost immobile.  

He nods slowly. Draws in a breath, cool dry air into his lungs. Well. Not like they hired him to talk. When can he fight again?

He casts a pointed look in the direction of the door. Makes a fist. Carolina follows his gaze but doesn’t answer for a second or two.

"They're ready to start the implantations," she says finally. "You’ll get the first AI.”

His brow furrows. He shakes his head no. Top of the leaderboard. That’s hers. Won’t take what she’s earned. He doesn’t need an AI to fight.

“I don’t need it.” Her voice, so strong. So Carolina. Her eyes back on his, so clear and _certain._ “I can stay on top without it. It’ll help you. I don't mean just in combat.” She smiles. “I know. I know you’re good. But you can use it to communicate with the rest of the team." The rest besides her. He turns his palm up into her hand, curls his fingers around hers. She understands him just fine without some computer program.

“I know,” she says quietly. “But it'll help. The AI can talk for you when you need it to.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. The Director agreed to this?

"I talked to the Director already," Carolina says. "He said I could make the call. So I'm making it."

Maine nods slowly. Okay. It's what she thinks is best. 

"You'll be in recovery for a while," she adds, rubbing her thumb over his hand. "Probably a few weeks. Once you’re released, they'll rate you for implantation."

She hesitates, reaches up to touch his face, her touch feather-light, fingers lingering on his jaw. "You did well. Really well on the mission. You should know that."

He shrugs. Holds her gaze in silence.

 

Recovery is bullshit.

Once they figure out he isn’t going to bite it, the staff avoid him. He goes a full eight hours without having his vitals checked because the nurses keep passing the job off. Talking about him in the corridor like he can’t fucking hear them. You gonna check on the big guy? Hell no, you check on him. Oh for fuck’s sake, says one of them, he’s not a monster. Jesus. So you gonna check on him then? I got other rounds. You do it.

Bored, he unclips the heart rate monitor from his finger and tosses it to the floor and pretends to be asleep. All three of them come running.

Oh my god is he dead?

Maine opens one eye, curls his lip and snarls. The nurses scream and scatter.

 

Wash comes to visit him. "Hey," he says, and there's relief to his voice as he steps up to Maine's bed. No chair in his room. One of the staff borrowed it a couple days ago and never brought it back. "Brought you these—I don't know if you can have 'em yet, but..."

He's got an armful of jello cups from the mess. The good ones, orange and red. None of the green shit. Maine nods, pleased. Trach came out the same day he woke up but he still can’t eat much. Swallowing still feels like he's tearing out chunks of his own throat, and his tongue feels all wrong and stiff and numb on the right side, but at least something'll taste good. They stuck another tube in his side to get food into him. Had to do it, Carolina said, couldn’t have him losing his strength from not eating but fucking hell, he almost put that doctor through a wall. Wanted to sedate him. Carolina took the doctor outside in the corridor and he could hear her speaking to him in very cold and very low tones and then they came back in and the doctor gave him a local anesthetic without a word. Carolina stayed close to him and he gave her his wrists to hold and just closed his eyes and tried to breathe with her and not think about how they were sticking more shit in his body. Still turns his stomach every time he moves and feels it.

On top of that, just more boredom. Gray walls, hospital sounds, antiseptic smell, and no taste either. He reaches for a jello cup.

Wash goes to kick the door closed before taking his helmet off. Maine makes a startled noise. Wash's hair is his usual regulation cut, but pale blonde instead of his dark brown. Wash flushes a little, lets out an awkward laugh. "Yeah. York's idea. Don't ask."

Maine raises his eyebrows.

"I _said_ don't ask."

Maine shrugs and tears into his jello.

Wash goes to find a chair. Can hear him arguing with somebody in the corridor before he returns, dragging a rolling office chair behind him. "You've got one hell of a reputation around here."

He cocks his head.

"Care to explain why none of the nurses will go near you?"

Nope.

"I figured," Wash says wryly. "So you want some help fucking with them?"

Wash knows how to mess with the vitals monitor. Make it scroll _EAT A DICK_ in small text under the heart rate blip every five minutes. Make it start beeping the theme from _Star Wars_ if his blood pressure gets too high.

Maine is pleased.

"Mind if I stick around a while? I mean, if you need to rest..."

He shakes his head. Fuck rest. Sick of it.

Wash flashes him a grin. "Figured. It’s just... quiet without you. In the room." Maine gives him a look. "Oh, you know what I mean. Just gimme the remote."

Wash stays the day. Must be cutting training sessions but he doesn't say anything about it. Good having him around. It helps.

 

Carolina comes again. She talks with the doctor on call before closing his door. Maine listens with interest as she describes in meticulous detail exactly what she will do to him if anyone disturbs them for less than a genuine medical emergency.

When she closes the door, she smiles.

She has his shave kit from his room, and a stainless steel basin. "Wash let me in," she explains, setting it on the table beside his bed. "Hope that was okay." He nods, and she unzips the black bag thoughtfully. "How should we do this?"

He raises an eyebrow questioning, raises both hands. Arms still work. Can do this himself.

"I know," she says, shrugging, a smirk tugging at her lips. "But I figured I'd help."

Oh.

So he sits up in bed and she gets a towel from the bathroom to lay over his shoulders. She rubs a palm over his head. Scalp's prickly. Face too.

She does his head first. Fills up the basin with warm water and soaks a washcloth in it, smoothing it over his scalp. Hops on the bed easy, straddling his thighs, and sprays his shaving foam into her tiny hands, lather frothing up blue between her fingers. The foam feels cool on his head, soft, nice. She smears an even layer from the top of his forehead to the nape of his neck, taking it slow. Her thumbs smooth over the curve behind his ears.

She dips her hands into the basin, rinsing off the foam, then clicks a new blade into his razor and begins from the front, taking long careful strokes. Shakes the foam off, swishes the razor in the water, and when the blade slides over his skin again it's warm.

He watches her, the way she rises up on her knees to reach, the arch of her spine to one side and the other to get all the tricky side spots. She's wearing those black sweatpants that are her favorite, the ones with the teal stripe down the side, and with them, just a plain white t-shirt with a v-neck, a little loose on her. When she leans over him it dips and the long valley of her breastbone and her sternum reveals itself, down to the dip of her navel in her taut abdomen. Her white bra has lace at the edges, but her skin is a wash of purple over her ribcage.

He furrows his brow. She tilts her head then looks down. “Oh.” Her jaw tightens a little. “Just some bruised ribs. It’s nothing.”

From the mission. What happened? Her eyes pull away. She doesn’t want to talk about it.

So he watches her as she leans over him, wondering if it hurts. Lets his eyes wander curiously over her skin. His breathing evens to the gentle scrape of the razor over his scalp and the pause and swish in the water.

She puts a hand on the side of his face and tips his head forward to get the back. He obeys, and watches the way the fabric moves when her thighs shift, but when he feels the blade drag slowly and carefully up the nape of his neck and past his neural port, he just closes his eyes.

He feels a shiver of disappointment down his spine when she finishes, and sets the razor aside. Her hands feel good on his skin, the blade feels good, different in her hands. He never thought of doing this. Never thought of shaving as anything other than a chore. She makes everything different.

The washcloth rubs over his scalp again, wiping away any stray bits of shaving foam and then she takes the towel around his shoulders and brings it up to rub his head dry before settling in back in place. His eyes come up to meet hers and he finds her looking at him curiously. One hand is in the towel, the other on his scalp, rubbing over his skin to make sure she hasn't missed any spots. Her movement slows but doesn't stop and she purses her lips, thumbs behind both ears again to check the tricky spots. But she's good. She hasn't missed anywhere.

Maine becomes very aware of cool air on his skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat.

She picks up the razor again. Now his face.

Blue foam in her hands, smeared over his jaw, his chin, his neck. She stops there. Hesitates.

His throat is still a mess. The trach incision’s closed up at least, and the bandages are off, but it’s all still a mess of ragged, gnarled tissue struggling to heal. Pain’s bad. Itching’s worse.

“Want me to?” she asks gently, letting her fingers just brush the side of his neck.

He nods.

She works slower now. Using her fingertips to apply the foam more precisely under his jaw, avoiding the closures. Two of the bullet wounds are up into his hairline, and she has to work around them. They’re the worst ones. Itch like hell, ingrown hairs caught in the scar tissue. Urge to tear at it gets bad, some days. Still too raw for her to shave. Have to wait.

But she does what she can.

Her strokes down the sides of his face are confident. She steadies him with a hand on his jaw as she drags the razor slowly, slowly over the curve of his chin. Presses her thumb against his lower lip to pull the skin flat, get into the dip just below. Pauses to rub the pad of her thumb over his lips. They’re dry, chapped. He licks them instinctively and the motion pulls uncomfortably on the bad side of his mouth, but when his tongue brushes her thumb she smiles.

He tips his jaw up for her and closes his eyes.

There is another moment of hesitation. Then the razor’s wet scrape under his jaw. Down one side in short, careful strokes. Down the other.

Then tiny, precise movements as she gets close to the wounds. Rounding his throat and under his chin in little upward drags. Her other hand warm on the side of his face, holding him steady.

The wet washcloth, gone cool now, blotting carefully under his jaw. Barely any pressure at all. Not enough to hurt.

He almost stops breathing.

She takes the towel in both hands, nods for him to lower his chin into her hands and he does.

It hurts, always, hurts even to move his head, but it’s easier not to flinch when it’s her eyes waiting to meet his.

He feels, not completely right again but better than before, the ordinary itch of days-old stubble, at least, gone. He exhales slowly, the pain in his throat soothed by the calm her touch spreads through his body.

She lets the towel drop into his lap, and holds his face in both hands and kisses him. Startles him, but she’s gentle, soft when her tongue slips against his. He relaxes into the incline of the hospital bed, and her hands linger on his face, cradling his jaw, even after she pulls back from the kiss, searching his eyes with her own.

He stares back, noting the line of worry creased into her brow, how it relaxes but doesn’t quite go away. He wets his lips again. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, swallows, the slope of her shoulders suddenly heavy, and he gives his head a slight shake. Don’t worry. He’ll be okay. He is okay.

Under the weight of her body, her thighs around his hips and her touch warm on his skin, he forgets that anything isn’t okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely would not be what it is without [this great post about Maine's injury from a linguistic perspective](http://neonlightssyndrome.tumblr.com/post/38196411560/laryngeal-trauma-and-speech-a-post-about-maine). The premise of Maine's injury and its consequences aren't founded in realism in canon so beyond a certain point, shooting for realism in fic is sort of overreaching, but Madi's post did give me a lot of thoughts and jumping-off points for research and further consideration, for which I'm grateful!


	11. Grounded

If York can stroll out of medical whenever he feels like it, Maine is pretty damn sure he should be able to go to the scrapyard as long as he can breathe, punch, and shoot. But the doc says no, he's still grounded, and the Director upholds it.

Carolina comes to see him before the drop. Suited up, helmet under her left arm. Hair pulled back in two tight elaborate braids and tucked up under at the back. Fuck, he misses his armor. Too many days out of it. The comfortable pressure and the weight, the helmet over his face.

“Soon,” she says. “The Director wants you to have your AI before you go back in the field.”

He grumbles faintly. Still hard to get much noise out.

“Soon,” she repeats with a half-smile.

He nods reluctantly.

 

So they go, and Maine climbs out of bed. Unhooks himself from the monitor. Nobody comes running anymore.

He does push-ups on the hard floor. Counts to a hundred and then stops counting and just keeps going, keeps pushing, until the tile rising and falling under his face starts to blur and the burn spreads from his arms to his abdomen down his legs until his whole body’s hot with it, until he can feel that burn more than the pain in his throat, and he keeps going.

 

The day drags. Maine does pushups until he can’t. Wish he had a pull-up bar. Last time he tried doing pull-ups in a doorframe he ripped the top of the frame off.

Restlessness burns in all of his limbs. He should be fighting. Should be at her back, not sitting here useless. At the very least, should be back training. They won’t let him out. Some shit about “observation.” Soon, Carolina said.

There is no clock in his room. Didn’t much notice before. Don’t really look at the time unless it’s the mission clock. There’s usually something to tell him when he needs to move and where but since the injury he hasn’t had anywhere to go. Fucking misses his armor. Even FILSS and her constant reminders.

He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his hands up and down his arms. He’s not cold, just… bare.

Too much skin.

He tips his head into his hands for a moment, rubs his forehead and his temples.

The room is mindnumbingly familiar by now, dark tiled floor, gray wall paneling and the Freelancer triad everywhere they can slap it. The wallscreen displaying the vitals monitor. The bed. A flimsy bedside table and rolling tray. Some cabinets, mostly locked. Not much.

He thinks of the bright teal of Carolina's armor, the red of her hair.

 _EAT A DICK_ says the vitals monitor and Maine cracks a smile. Too bad no one ever comes in to appreciate it.

Not much observing going on.

Unless there's a camera.

Maine feels suddenly, furiously stupid.

Of course there's a camera. There's a camera in the room. Why didn't he think of that. They're watching him. Have been the whole time.

Stupid. His skin shouldn't start to crawl at the thought. Been watching all week. Doesn't change anything, but he's angry, all the same. Watching him. Watching him fidget and squirm. Watching him pace and do push-ups and try to pull his body back to where it should be when they won't let him out to train.

Watching him with _her_.

Anger wells up in his chest suddenly. Stupid. Doesn’t make sense, there’s cameras over the whole damn ship, they _know_ that, it’s just security. How it is. Only not in their quarters.

Not in their places.

(And now he wonders, is that even true. Maybe there are cameras hidden in their quarters watching them sleep, in the locker rooms watching them shower. In the bathrooms watching them shit.)

He surveys the room. Never find it anyway. Wash might have an idea where to look. York, Maine grudgingly admits to himself, York would know too. But they’re away on the mission.

Breaking every damn thing in the room is an option.

 

He starts with the vitals screen, still scrolling blank stats across the wall. Still scrolling _EAT A DICK_ every five minutes under the missing heart rate. Picks up the bedside table, gives it an easy swing. The screen gives, cracking, flickering and going dark. Keypad next. The intercom panel. Anything he can dig his fingers under and rip off its housing. Every blinking light. When he’s done half the side wall is a void of exposed circuitry and loose wires. Nothing that looks like a camera to him. But no way to be sure. For good measure he digs in with both bare hands grabbing fistfuls of wire, tearing it all out. Circuit boards. Snaps them in half. Chips. Resistors. Lot of stuff he doesn’t know the names of. Doesn’t matter. It all comes out. Be nice to have his armor back. All the hardware’s roughing up his hands.

The air vents. Obvious. But just empty ducts behind them. Maine idly bends the vents in half and then in half again, thinking.

Cabinets lining the back wall. The cabinet doors are a little more work to wrench off their hinges, especially the locked ones. Maine tosses them in the corner with the vents, each of them joining the pile with a loud clang. Nothing much inside. Just medical shit. Gauze and tape and antiseptic wipes and sharps containers. He sweeps it all out onto the floor, just to see. A clear plastic cannister bounces, spilling swabs in a half-circle. Nothing at the back of the cabinets. Just steel.

Some noises outside in the hall now. Maine ignores them.

What next?

There’s a hook on the back of the door where a clipboard hangs. The clipboard gets discarded in the bent heap of cabinet doors. The hook doesn’t take his full weight before it snaps off.

The blue light panels running up the walls. One good sideways hit with the meaty side of his fist caves them in. There are eight on each wall. One by one Maine punches them dark. The room’s dimmer now. Only the ceiling lights left.

What next?

But there isn’t anything. Just gray wall paneling. He growls, disappointed, and the growl actually makes it past his throat this time. The sound is strange, a wet gravelly noise that still hurts ripping past the scar tissue in his throat but it’s something. He can move his jaw a little more, his tongue enough to swallow. Can’t do words, but those never came very easy anyway.

His energy’s high. Feels better than he has all week. Probably already got the camera, wherever it was, but he wants more to take apart.

There’s a rattle at the door.

Maine faces the door as it slides open, crossing his arms over his chest. Not nurses. Not medics. Shipboard security, in their gray and white armor. Rifles raised, aim wavering with hesitation.

Lightweights. Wouldn’t last five minutes if he wanted them gone.

Maine shrugs and raises his eyebrows at them. Confused murmurs ripple through the cluster. There are six of them. Big guys. Not as big as Maine.

I don’t fucking know, somebody says. Get the Director.

Fuck the Director. He just wants his armor back. The security grunts don’t get it, not even when he taps the head guard on his chestplate and then taps his own chest. The guard staggers backward like he’s been shoved. Stammers. The others mutter. He’s trying to say something. What’s he want?

Get him something to write with, one of them says.

Something cold and angry runs down Maine’s spine.

They bring him a datapad.

He wasn’t angry before. Not really. Just wanted the fucking cameras off. Not even that. Just… wanted to move. Use his fists. Take something apart.

The head guard puts the pad in his hands. Watching him expectantly. All of them.

 _Armor_.

One word. One fucking word. He can’t say it. He can force the air out of his throat but all that comes with it is that ragged, alien growl. Words. His chest feels tight, furious. His breath hisses between his teeth. Wash would get it. Carolina would. Not fucking complicated.

Armor.

A.

He tries to focus on the swarm of letters taking up half the pad’s screen. A. Keyboards have never made any fucking sense. Why isn’t B next to A. Why don’t they go in any kind of order.

A-R.

He scans the keyboard over and over and over, trying to find the M. He feels sick in the pit of his stomach, something old.

Arm? says one of the guards, leaning into his space. Maine shoves him off. The rest all back up.

A-R-M-E-R.

Oh, _armor._ He wants his armor.

Uh. You think that’s a good idea?

Maine forces out a louder growl. His throat sears with pain but it’s worth it for the way the guards back off.

Okay, okay, fine! Get him his armor already. Christ.

 

His fingers are balling into fists of rage and all the energy worked up from taking the room apart has coiled itself into angry adrenaline deep in his muscles, burning for something to destroy. Something like the helmets of the fuckshit security guards. Maine pictures putting his fist through their faceplates with vicious clarity, imagines slamming their heads into the wall and tossing them in the corner, piled like the bent cabinet doors from his room.

He’s almost shaking by the time he gets his helmet on. The guards have long since retreated, leaving him to suit up alone.

The snugness of the suit rolled up over his thighs, up his chest and his arms, it helps, but it’s not until he gets the helmet on that he lets out a long breath of relief that feels like he’s been holding it for a week. The armor’s onboard computer boots, his HUD lights up, there’s a momentary blur as the visor comes to life and adjusts to the room’s lighting.

He squeezes his fists tight in the gloves for a long moment, feeling the gel layer modulate and the force amps calibrate, and releases. He breathes.

Better.

 

It’s the Counselor who calls him in after that, not the Director.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Agent Maine. How are you… feeling, today?”

The Counselor doesn’t seem particularly bothered by Maine tearing apart a hospital room. Doesn’t ask why. Got a little smile on his face, but he usually does, so it’s hard to read. The little briefing room has nowhere to sit. They both stand, the Counselor holding a datapad. Maine doesn’t mind. Been sitting too long anyway.

The Counselor watches him expectantly.

Maine shrugs.

The Counselor nods thoughtfully. “Agent Maine, I understand you are eager to return to active duty.”

He rumbles in agreement.

“We are looking forward to… facilitating that process. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You respond in the manner you are most comfortable. All right?”

It’s not a few questions. It’s a fuckton of questions. The Counselor lied about that part. Keeps his word about the answering, though. Said do it how you’re most comfortable and so Maine does. Head shakes, nods, shrugs. Hands when he needs them. No datapad. No words. The Counselor nods thoughtfully and makes notes.

“Prior to joining Project Freelancer, you saw direct engagement with Covenant forces. Would you say that your time on the front lines was: satisfactory, somewhat satisfactory, or unsatisfactory?"

“How would you describe your relationship with your teammates here in Project Freelancer?"

“How would you describe your relationship with squad leader Agent Carolina?”

Maine pauses slightly in the idle rock from one foot to the other."

“Satisfactory, somewhat—”

He nods at _Satisfactory_.

“Have you ever worked directly with smart AI prior to Project Freelancer?”

No.

“Would you describe your feelings about experimental AI as: positive, negative, or neutral?”

Shrug.

“Do you regularly consume caffeinated beverages?”

Some of them get strange.

“In your opinion, what is the ideal relationship between a special operative and an implanted combat AI? A: A commanding officer and a subordinate. B: A soldier and a piece of military equipment. C: A symbiotic or mutually beneficial relationship between two entities. Or D: A friendship as between two humans.”

Maine stares blankly for a long minute.

"I'll just put down 'other.' Let's continue. Choose the answer that best describes your childhood…”

 

When it’s done the Counselor dismisses him and no one tells him where to go and he’s sure as fuck not going back to medical. He feels uncomfortably tired, but in his head, not in his body. Drained, but jumpy. Hitting something would be good.

He finds an empty training room.

“Oh, I am sorry, Agent Maine. It seems you are not yet cleared to return to combat simulation training.”

He stalks out.

At least FILSS can’t kick him out of the weight room.


	12. MIA

Word travels on a Charon-class frigate. Word travels on even the big battle cruisers. Maine's been on a few of those back in his Infantry days, and even when they passed a lot of their time in cryo getting jumped from one Covie-occupied hellhole to the next, people talked. People talk around Maine especially. Dunno why. Maybe him not talking back makes them forget he's listening.

Small ops like Freelancer, people talk. Not Alpha Squad so much. But the Betas at their heels, they talk about what's going on in Alpha. Every squad chatters about what's going on in the squads above. The leaderboard thing. Looking for their spots. The _Invention_ crew run their mouths about the Freelancers any chance they get. Classified or not, the greasemonkeys in the hangar spread whatever mission dirt they can get and it crawls up through the ranks before a squad's even out of debrief.

That's how Maine figures out that something went bad, long before he sees Carolina's face.

Muttering from a cluster of white-armored crew outside the weight room. Whispers in the mess. Gleeful, hopeful looks on the faces of some of the more cutthroat Betas.

Maine's out of armor but comfortably drenched in sweat with a good warm burn in his muscles, a towel laid around his neck. The Betas go quiet when he gets close. His eyes settle on the leaderboard, first time since he got out of medical. 

Third was his spot after the three-on-one match. Highest he’d been.

He’s fourth now, York’s pulled ahead of him, but that’s not what makes him stop and squint at the board.

**1 TEXAS**

 

It's an hour, maybe more, before he sees Carolina.

He stakes out a spot on the observation deck, watching who emerges from debrief: York, Wash, the twins. No Wyoming, no Florida, but Florida floats between squads, sometimes fighting, sometimes piloting, and sometimes Wy and Florida do recon together. Were they on this mission? He’s not sure.

A green light flashes over York’s shoulder and Maine squints, trying to bring it into focus. A holoprojection. They’ve already started, then. York’s been implanted first. Shouldn’t care. York’s above him on the board anyway, always has been except for that time after the match. Maine shouldn’t even be getting his yet. He grunts. Doesn’t matter.

Carolina is the last one down, lagging a good twenty minutes behind the others, and it’s only then he thinks how it never occurred to him to wonder whether she came back. He doesn’t… worry about her on missions, not that way. Should he? Seems wrong. She can take care of herself. She’s good. The best.

But it wasn’t good. Her posture tells him first, the way she strides tensely out of the elevator from the bridge, helmet off, bangs falling out of the braid, hanging in her eyes. After a good mission she leads with her chest, shoulders back and chin high. Bad, she leads with her head. Shoulders taut, spine cocked forward like she wants to make her body a battering ram.

She sees him and freezes.

Never seen her move quite like that. Like she wants to turn and run. Not from him. From _something_. It’s only for a second, and then she keeps moving, but he can’t forget that jolt in her gait.

He should go. Wait somewhere else.

If she wants him, she’ll come.

 

Wash is there when he gets back to their quarters, helmet still on. He does that sometimes, even here, and Maine catches him in the middle of pacing from one end of the room to the other, jerky, restless. He sort of jerks around. “Oh. Hey.”

Maine cocks his head to the side in question.

Takes Wash a minute. Hands open and close, shoulders rise and then drop. “Connie,” he says finally. Heavily. “CT, I mean. She—didn’t come back.”

CT. Been off the board since the moon, but the Director’s kept her on Alpha Squad. She went with them to the city.

Not like Wash not to say the word. Wash’s been front lines too. People die. You say it. You don’t leave it open like that.

Maine waits.

“She’s MIA,” Wash says, his tone going flat. “They think…” He stops. Shakes his head. “I don’t know what they think.”

He does know. Maine isn’t going to be the one to make him say it, though. He gives a slow nod.

Wash drops onto the edge of his bunk, shoulders sinking. “I don’t know.”

 

Carolina doesn’t come that night.

He wonders if he should go to her. He rolls over from one side to the other in his bunk, wondering that. But it isn’t how they are.

 

FILSS calls him to the medbay for implantation prep at 0600, and when he walks in, she’s already there. Not a word, just nods to him as they get him laid out and make him take his helmet off.

The medic eyes Carolina with obvious apprehension. No one allowed in for the procedure. Director’s orders. Sorry, Agent, you’ll have to wait out—

“Give us a minute,” Carolina says in her Team Leader voice.

The medic scurries.

Carolina rests her hand on his breastplate.

She looks so tired. Wonder if she slept at all after the mission. There’s a split in her lower lip like she’s been chewing on it. Her eyes are shadowed, but they look at him. He’s glad. Even if he can tell that behind them, she’s working something over and over in her head that he can’t see.

He puts his hand over her hand. She turns her palm up into his, and he squeezes, twice.

She blinks, and then exhales softly and squeezes back. Once. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that if you're on tumblr you can follow me at [annefiction](http://annefiction.tumblr.com) for fic updates! Or you can follow me at my main [anneapocalypse](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com) for fic updates and incessant fandom blogging and unreasonable amounts of meta and high quality shitposting. Cheers.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading and for your comments and kudos.


	13. Sigma

He wakes with his brain on fire.

A torrent of impressions crackle fast and hot through his mind—images, smells, tastes—a texture of skin, the edge of a piece of glass, the sensation of swallowing, an antiseptic taste under his tongue. Nausea. Senses spinning disembodied, the violent swell of thought and memory ripping and spitting through his head, too fast to get a hold on anything. Can’t find himself under it—can’t feel his hands, his face, the clench of his jaw—under the roar of sensation nothing is real.

(He’s dead. They put the thing in his head and it ripped him out of his body.)

It’s the thrashing sense of panic that brings it back, struggling to feel his lungs working, his heart beating—there. Heavy. He feels heavy. Anchored. Still a body. Alive.

He remembers. They didn’t put him under. Wonder if that was Carolina’s doing, or just how it is. They didn’t talk to him. Just put him on his back, glared a light in his face that gleamed off all their visors. No one he recognized from the long stay in medical. All opaque faceplates and pale blue gloves, vinyl smell, the flip in his stomach when the antigrav field kicked in and they rolled him over with rubbery hands like he wasn’t twice their size. Cool spray of anesthetic on his skin, a tinny screech in his ears, and words— _Hold still_ —and vinyl hands holding his skull steady, pinpoints of pressure and then little sharp pains in the back of his neck. _Contact. Lace looks good._ Pressure. Click. Cold on the back of his neck, warming to his skin.

Then fire flooding his mind, and his vision blacking out.

Not dead. He can feel the heaviness of his chest, back in normal gravity, and he swallows.

His throat hurts.

White. His eyes are open. There's a light right over his head which might have something to do with the feeling of being stabbed in the eyes. Every heartbeat a dull throb of pain pulsing in every corner of his skull. Never felt so relieved to have a headache before.

He groans, and something prickles sharply in his head.

_Hello, Agent Maine._

He blinks. Swallows. The burn in his throat’s faded to a dull ache. He brings a hand up experimentally to rub his eyes. It works. Maine almost shudders with relief. Hands work. Arms. Body works.

Tries to remember it, what just happened, but it’s all blurring out. Fuzzy, like a fading dream. He rolls onto his side, brings himself upright. Too fast. White spots smear across his vision, pain blossoming in starbursts behind his eyes.

Sparks in his mind.

Focus on it. The Counselor’s voice. He’s somewhere nearby talking. Maine is focused on not puking or pitching forward onto the floor. The lights are screaming in his eyes. Where’s his helmet. His hands scramble and find it at the side of the bed, the slick shiny dome under his gloved hands. He pulls it over his face and inhales in the dark before the HUD comes to life and modulates the light to tolerable levels. The tightness behind his eyes eases a little. A voice, a brightness flares back there somewhere but he’s still having trouble bringing it into focus.

Words.

Focus on it, the Counselor’s voice says again. It will become clearer.

Maine closes his eyes, feeling for it, and the hot little trail of thought deep in his mind flares up, eager.

_Hello, Agent Maine. My name is Sigma. I look forward to us working together._

Words.

Maine pushes the question in the direction of the voice.

What did you do?

_I do not understand the question._

He realizes his lips are moving, like they always did as a kid when he tried to read silently. Doesn’t matter. Helmet’s on. He reaches. No explanation for it. The rush of memory, sensation, images. The feeling of being forced out of his body. Why?

Even gone quiet, Sigma feels like a little burn. Moving along his neurons like a 60-cycle hum.

Maine shivers.

Vaguely he hears the Counselor again, but doesn’t catch it. Can’t listen to both at once.

 _Some disorientation following implantation is expected._ Sigma’s voice is sharp now, clear and bright. _However, I may have been overzealous in my initial integration. I apologize if I caused you any distress._

But what did you _do?_

Sigma flickers, curious now. _I believe what you experienced was a sensory overload due to a higher-than-average number of neural pathways being accessed simultaneously._

Takes a minute to untangle that.

Accessed by you?

A sheepish feeling flushes in his mind. _I will be more… cautious in the future. As I said, I was somewhat overzealous in my desire to get to know you, Agent Maine._

Maine snorts. His head’s starting to clear. HUD’s reporting all his vitals look good, and he can see fine now. The Counselor hangs a few feet back, watching him curiously but not asking any questions. Nice for a change. No one else in the Recovery room. But on the other side of the glass, in the corridor that runs parallel, he sees Wash standing with York, that holographic green glow at his shoulder. Their helmets nod like they’re talking, but Wash’s head turns when he sees Maine looking. He waves.

Maine nods back and instantly Sigma’s attention follows. It’s not like before, Maine’s eyes stay focused and he doesn’t _overload_ , if that’s the word, but there’s this… fascination that kind of pours over his thoughts, and a stream of impressions again, just less this time. Wash’s face, his voice, that slight stutter when he gets excited and the bright steel of his eyes. Wash is still watching him in the window and Maine feels… what he always feels. Never really put it into words. Never had to.

_Agent Washington is your friend. You enjoy working with him. You consider him capable and efficient. You find his presence comfortable. You are pleased that he is here to see how you are._

Maine blinks, and Wash blurs out of his gaze as he narrows in on the string of thought, trying to keep up with it.

So many words.

 

But the AIs are for combat and not for talking. Soon as they let him go, Maine heads straight from Recovery to a training room. Got his overshield to try out.

All their armor came pre-loaded with combat enhancements but they’re supposed to have a computer running them, which without an onboard AI means a remote connection back to Command, which is risky enough because if you lose the connection in the field you can lose control of the mod, and some of these mods you lose control of them and they can kill the shit out of you. Seen it firsthand. More washouts in training due to equipment failure than anything else. Nothing to drive the point home like seeing a teammate splattered against the concrete wall of a sim base after trying to run a speed unit on manual. Or crumpled in heap of shattered armor plating and broken bones after their dome shield collapsed in on itself. North managed a dome shield for a few seconds without a pipeline and saved his whole team’s asses and he’s still getting heat about it.

Still, if Maine had used his overshield on the freeway, things might’ve gone different.

 

_Agent Maine, are you experiencing guilt over the outcome of your previous mission?_

No.

Sigma ponders. _Despite your injuries, your squad accomplished its objective. Do you not consider the outcome satisfactory?_

Satisfactory? Let a couple of Innie shitbags get the jump on him. Failed her. Never again.

_You are experiencing feelings specific to Agent Carolina._

Don’t talk about her.

He can feel Sigma humming with curiosity, but he doesn’t ask any more for now.

 

It's easier on the training floor. Sigma studies the overshield and Maine has the very strange sensation of Sigma pouring through his armor, taking in all its functions and learning how it works, in the space of maybe a couple of seconds.

 _Activating overshield_ , Sigma says.

The three-second burn as the unit powers up is nothing new to Maine. He's practiced this on the command server. Knows how it works. Works on top of the armor’s standard shielding system, effectively boosting shields to 200%, briefly. Not complicated.

What's different is how it _feels_.

Sigma's awareness is in every plate and circuit of his armor, inside the armor's onboard computer poring over its functions, optimizing every movement so that even standing up takes less effort, balance feels more precise, and when he shifts his weight, steps forward and back, it’s _easier_ somehow. Smoother. So strange. Armor's already skin to him, he moves in it as sure as he moves in his own muscle but it's never felt like this. Never felt like every piece was really a part of his body, blood and bone and muscle and nerve into mesh and gel and plate and circuit, seamless and whole.

Maine hums low in his throat with the sheer pleasure of it.

He curls a fist, feeling the shield modulating around his glove as it moves. Rolls his shoulders.

 _You are pleased_ , says Sigma, flaring up with delight.

Yeah. Fuck, yes. He's pleased. Let's do something with it.

_Would you like me to run the tutorial program?_

They smash through hand-to-hand exercises, getting pretty good scores. Maine's still absorbed with how his armor feels now, and he's not any faster than usual, but it’s a warm up. The low heat of the shield seeps comfortably into his skin as it powers up, dissipating as it wears off. Runs longer with Sigma than it would on the server. His hits feel more precise too, even on the holographic targets. God damn. Never taking this armor off again.

Turret exercises are next. Sigma's glowing with pride, scrolling numbers through Maine's head, explaining how much force the shields can withstand, calculating velocity and angles of deflection, degrees of fragmentation. The numbers don't really stick. It's the feel of it that Maine absorbs, every shot that hits him without penetrating, the paint pellets disintegrating away as they hit, never touching the physical surface of his armor. He thinks of those sniper rounds on the freeway, the crushing force hitting his chest, doubling him over gasping for air. Never would've happened with the overshield.

 _This concludes the tutorial,_ says Sigma and Maine stops to catch his breath, surveying the practice turrets lying in pieces.

More. He wants more.

 _As you wish_ , Sigma replies, crackling with enthusiasm.

 

For the test, he has an audience. The Director and the Counselor up there behind the bulletproof glass. Wyoming, helmet cocked, half in shadow. North, York, Wash. And Carolina. Maine watches out of the corner of his eye as she slips her helmet off, red hair falling in her eyes. Her hand rises to push her messy bangs behind her ears. The shorter pieces fall free, fanning over her cheekbone.

The Director’s voice booms over the intercom, ordering him to the floor _._

Maine rumbles as he steps to the center of the training room.

He doesn’t get his new toy for the test. No non-standard equipment. Counselor says it would obscure the test results. Obscure or obfuscate or some word like that. He’s welcome to use it in the field, train with it on his own time. For this, just his armor and his own two fists, and Sigma.

Begin the test, the Director says, and there’s a series of metallic clanks as turrets rise from the floor in a zigzag pattern.

The Director is talking, not to him. Agent Maine’s armor is equipped with an advanced integrated overshield that can be activated to make him virtually invincible… temporarily, of course. There’s a bit of a chuckle in that last bit. Maine lets out a low growl.

The first turret opens fire. Live rounds. Not paint. There’s the first surprise. Suppose it shouldn’t be, not after that match. Straight from the old man himself. No rules on the battlefield. Right. Why bother with all the paint shit anyway.

 _Activating overshield_ , Sigma says and the burn seems even deeper this time, settling into every nerve, humming under his skin, as countless rounds sear into the fragmentation layer (he can't count them but Sigma can), little more than dust by the time they reach the hard light layer and are deflected away.

He feels aglow, alight, untouchable.

_Shield integrity at 186%._

In the window above he’s aware of the tilt of her head, the flash of her curious green eyes.

Maine just punches the first few turrets off their mounts before that gets boring. Kicks work too. He starts tearing them loose in creative ways. Grab by the barrel, the shielded gloves protecting his hands from the heat, and twist sharply upward, tearing it off its housing. _If you were to tear out the firing pin,_ Sigma points out, _you could quickly and easily disable the target._ Less fun, Maine points out. Sigma hums with amusement. _If fun is what you are after, you could simply use your force amps to put a bend in the barrel that would cause the entire unit to backfire. This would cause more substantial shield damage, however—_

Maine grabs a turret barrel and twists, then steps back as it jams and then explodes.

 _Shields at 153%_ , Sigma reports.

Maine rumbles a laugh. Not the best tactic in the field. Okay on the training floor.

The Director tells FILSS to activate rocket drones.

Oh, fuck.

 _If I may make a suggestion,_ Sigma says as the floor opens again and three drones emerge, _your best chance in this scenario is—_

Yeah, yeah, use the drones against each other, no shit. He wasn't born yesterday.

_Yes. Your overshield will simply improve your survival window. In fact, as long as shields remain at or above 100%, I estimate you could survive the force of all three drones exploding at once in close proximity._

What do you mean, survive.

_For the purposes of this test in a controlled environment, it is an acceptable strategy._

The drones are faster than Maine is, and too smart to get themselves in a line where he can easily chuck one through the other two. The rockets are small and non-heat-seaking. Can stay ahead of them well enough to avoid any direct hits. But with the shield dropping every time a blast hits too close, he only gets one chance at this.

Tucking and rolling’s never been Maine's strong suit, with his sheer size and bulk, but it's a good move to know and Carolina's drilled him in duck and dodge enough, he can do it if he has to. With the increased armor precision, pretty sure he can pull this off. Sigma agrees, pulsing in every joint of his armor, ready.

Maine rolls under the approaching drone. Too slow to catch the unit off guard but it's enough, just enough to let him catch the drone by its propulsion mechanism. Instinct says use the momentum, swing it around and fling it into one of the other two, have just the last left to deal with. Would work. In the field, probably what he'd do. Right now, though, he wants to see if he can pull off what Sigma has in mind. Get all three close, get the one to detonate all three. Somehow.

 _Keep moving,_ Sigma orders. _I will handle the timing._

Maine moves, dragging the captured drone alongside him as it fires its thrusters, trying futilely to change direction and wearing away at his shields by minute percentages. Slower to dodge the rockets, and one grazes close. 140%. 128%. The two left move infuriatingly quick, never crossing, keeping a wide triangle between themselves and Maine. _They are programmed to maintain a triangle between the three of them_ , Sigma observes. _Use the wall. Force them to change formation._

Maine banks left at his full goddamn speed. The turrets respond.

_Now!_

An image burns into his head and Maine knows in a split-second what Sigma wants. A quick change of direction, fling the captured turret at the nearest of the two. Gotta hand it to the AI in his head, the angles are perfect. They're less than two feet from each other when the hit turret's half-deployed rocket is jarred off course, hitting the third, and the explosion triggers a secondary in the captured turret which attempted to turn and fire as soon as it was clear of Maine. The double blast hits his shields hard, knocking out the overshield and dropping the standard below 10%, but by then Maine’s stomping what's left of the sparking machinery into the cratered training room floor.

Test complete, the Director announces. Excellent work, gentlemen.

"Thank you, Director," Sigma says out loud, making Maine twitch with surprise. It's a jolt to suddenly hear the projected voice next to his head instead of inside. He nods an affirmative. Thank you.

 _We did well,_ Sigma murmurs to him. _See what we can accomplish when we work together?_

He does see.

 

Restlessness twitches in all his limbs as Maine makes for the shower. Twitches and hums and burns, a burn that seems to linger even after the shield is gone. He finds himself staring at his own arms after he strips his armor off. Moves his fingers, turns his hands over. They feel like someone else's.

 _You are experiencing certain anticipated post-implantation side effects,_ Sigma explains. There's no surprise in his voice. _Do not be alarmed. These effects are well within acceptable parameters._

Maine shakes his head, the words crackling and spitting against his mind. Acceptable parameters. Doesn't know what that means, only that the words feel full of jagged edges he doesn't want to push against. Let's not talk for a while.

Sigma sparks curiously.

No. Don't want to talk about the test. It's done. What's to talk about. Need some quiet. There’s a vague kind of ache starting in his skull again and Maine ducks his head under the water hoping to sooth it away but it’s not the implantation site that hurts. Something deeper. Can’t reach it, even when he turns the water up hard and cold as it’ll go.

 

“Maine?”

He pushes the curtain aside, and she’s here, still armored, helmet off, peeling off one glove as he steps out of the shower. Sigma has retreated to a flicker in the back of his mind, quieter now but still unmistakably present.

Carolina’s eyes, wide with curiosity, narrow a little as she looks up at him. She raises her bare hand to touch his skin, draws her fingers over the wet plane of his jaw. A drop slides over the curve of her palm before it cups his face and her eyebrows quirk slightly. He exhales slowly. Nods. That would be good right now.


	14. Afterburn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains explicit BDSM play.** Whether it's sexually explicit is up to your interpretation.

He doesn’t think about it until they’re back to her room. In sweats and a t-shirt, armor stowed in his locker, done with training for the day, and without the power of the onboard processors Sigma burns a little quieter. He doesn’t think of it until the door closes behind them and she turns to face him and there’s a surge in the curious crackle of Sigma’s attention and Maine balks, instantly.

He feels surprise, then understanding.

_I can… go offline, if you would prefer._

Oh. You can do that?

Didn’t know. Don’t know much. Nobody said how the AIs work.

 _I can._ There’s a hint of reluctance in it and Maine feels uneasy. Don’t care. This isn’t for him.

He nods with relief and Sigma… withdraws. It’s as strange a feeling as everything else, a backflow of awareness rushing out of his mind, cool in its absence, like air on exposed skin. He blinks, trying to refocus. Like the whole room’s been colorshifted by some small degree.

Carolina’s watching him, tilting her head inquisitively. “You okay?”

He nods.

 

She takes it slower this time. Gives him more time with his hands, he notices, guiding them to the clasps of her armor. Pauses when he fumbles, looks to him for confirmation. He shakes his head. Sorry. Distracted. There’s a faint residual hum in his head, a buzzing under his skin, even with the armor off and Sigma offline. Anticipated post-implantation effects. Acceptable parameters. Quiet. He absorbs his hands in her, and she waits until all the plating’s been stripped from her compact frame before she slides her hands up under his shirt, cool against his skin, and tugs the shirt off.

Feels calmer once he’s naked, and she’s peeling down her undersuit, baring her skin pale and stark against the fabric. Leaves it hanging at her waist to catch his jaw, draw him down for a kiss, and Maine covers her mouth with his trying to drive away the buzz. Her mouth pushes back, hard. Can always count on her for that. Firm hands on his chest, his shoulders. He drops to his knees, even though his thighs still twitch with that phantom energy. Don’t want to give. Don’t want to be still.

She cups the back of his head, pulls his face in against her belly.

Maine lets out a startled sigh and closes his eyes. Ah. This helps. He brushes his lips against her navel and exhales and lets his cheek sink into her softness of her skin, the firmness of her abdominal muscles. Like he could pour himself into her skin. Feels smaller. Focuses on the way she fills up the space with her presence and her touch, till it feels like there’s more of her than there is of him. She rubs his scalp, and Maine makes a soft noise against her. Feels nice.

She steps back to pull her suit off the rest of the way, and then she’s back, cupping his face, tipping his gaze up.

Steady and bright, her eyes search him. A shiver knifes down his spine. Her brow furrows slightly, her lips purse thoughtfully. Her touch traces his cheekbone, soft. Questioning.

In answer he drops his eyes away from hers, deliberately, to the floor.

She spreads a warm palm over the back of his head, just above where a dull pain still throbs faintly at the base of his skull. Accepting his answer. She’s still for another moment, rubbing his scalp in light circles, and he concentrates on the gentle pressure of the heel of her hand, the pads of her fingers. Then she bends to kiss his forehead, her hair brushing his face as she does, and moves away.

Maine keeps his eyes down, waiting.

Hands slide from his shoulders down his biceps, around his elbows, over his forearms, and his arms are drawn behind his back, and the smooth shape of the figure 8 settles into his palm.

 

He twitches a little, still jumpy, when she secures the tie around his wrists, but he doesn’t realize how much harder it’s going to be this time until he feels the pull against his shoulders. More than a twitch this time. A shudder. The surge of adrenaline he’s managed to let settle after the test is rising back up, his body still pulsing with it, and even though Sigma’s offline he knows what he would hear: how much pressure the rope would withstand and three different ways to manipulate his muscles to get out of it.

He’s tensed and Carolina has halted, waiting on him. First time since he got out of recovery, he realizes, and he thinks about her eyes troubled and her brow furrowed and he inhales, prickling with unease.

Deep breaths. Willing the tension to melt out of his muscles. Coiled like a spring, still ready to kill. Just beyond the edges of his vision rockets are blazing at him, turretfire rattles against his second skin and shields are dropping. He shivers. So _close_. Can almost feel the heat of them. Memory’s always vivid but not like this.

Carolina rests her hand on the side of his neck and slides in closer, warm against his back. She’s still waiting on the rope, keeping it safe in the other hand not slack but not tight. His eyes are down, he’s trying, and she knows. Presses a kiss against his jaw.

The sheer closeness of her pushes back the burn of muscle memory and adrenaline and Sigma. Not completely. It helps.

He sighs.

Her hand slides down his chest, lying where the rope crosses, and her fingertips tap out a rhythm against his skin. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. He’s exhaling in time with her before he realizes it. Inhales with the sudden cool on his shoulder where the heat of her breath was.

Her arms reach around him to bring the rope across his chest a second time.

Maine keeps his eyes closed as the snug bite of the rope pulls gently against his muscles, shifting slightly as her hands dress the line, settling into familiar comfort as she finishes the tie. When she moves around to the front of him he opens his eyes. Her hands travel over his arms and shoulders and chest, checking for pressure points, making sure everything’s right. She’s studying him again, it feels like, her hand on his neck where it meets his shoulder, where the tension settles sometimes. It occurs to him, in the back of his mind somewhere, that he’s not hard, at all. Her gaze isn’t critical, though. Just pensive.

She brushes her bangs out of her eyes, bites her lip, and for a long moment he can’t tell what she’s thinking. She leans over toward the bed, reaching for something.

The other length of rope comes back in her hand.

“Want to do more?” she asks.

Eyes down, he nods. Doesn’t have to think about it.

Carolina leans in to kiss him. A slower, deeper kiss. He leans into it, making a noise in his throat when she pulls back.

She’s smiling now.

 

Carolina starts on one leg, shifting him off his heels to one side. He grunts as he re-positions himself. Not that flexible. She runs her palm down the side of his calf muscle, fingertips brushing against his thigh, before wrapping her hand firmly around his ankle. She’s watching him closely. He shivers, but doesn’t flinch away.

She folds the single-column tie around his ankle, secures it and wraps the rope around the wide part of his thigh. Puts her hand over his foot and pushes gentle, folding his leg as tight as it’ll go. Heel doesn’t touch. Not flexible like her. She takes the slack out of the rope and wraps again, sliding her hand over his inner thigh as she does. With his eyes down he can watch. The rope forms a spiral around his folded leg and when she reaches the knee, she takes the working end and wraps it into itself, into each line, locking them in place between thigh and calf.

He remembers the thought of springing up on the balls of his feet, throwing himself upright. Couldn’t do that now. One leg left. Not much to move. He stares at the ladder of crossed rope against his skin until it blurs, and everything feels so heavy now, and slow, like moving in water.

Her hand is on his other thigh, just resting there, and he wonders how long it’s been there. Don’t remember. She’s not tying anymore. The end’s tied off, tucked neatly under, the way she does. He doesn’t quite remember that happening. Not quite sure if they’re finished or not. Doesn’t matter. She’s sitting on the floor in front of him. Eye level. A hand on the side of his face eases him partway back to awareness—she tips his face to hers, eyes meeting his, and he can feel the heat of her breath on his face and she feels very close and somehow very far away. He feels dizzy, suddenly, like he’s two places at once, here looking into her eyes and closed in a room at the back of his mind, and he doesn’t understand.

He feels the figure 8 slip from his hand, hears the _thunk_ as it hits the floor.

She has both arms around him. He leans into her instinctively, her cheek soft against his, doesn’t think about what she’s doing until he feels her fingers working, undoing the box tie at his back. The tension across his chest and shoulders goes slack and he gasps in a breath, a strange feeling of panic pooling in his chest as the comforting hold falls away and now it’s _this_ , the release, that his body wants to resist.

Fingers working the leg rope out of its spiral ladder, the hold giving way. He feels loose, boneless. Carolina keeps a hand on his chest as she moves to settle back against her bunk, reaching up to pull a blanket off it, and pulling him in to her.

He finds himself with his head resting in her lap. Not totally sure how he got there but it seems like a good place to be. Her thigh’s soft under his cheek. He closes his eyes. Feels a blanket arranged over him, hands rubbing his shoulder, his neck.

“Don’t worry about Wash,” she says quietly. “You should stay the night.”

Staying seems good.

 

He wakes thickly, groggily, clawing through layers of sleep trying to force his eyes open. The air seems oppressive and for a moment his chest constricts and he’s afraid he’s stopped breathing but no, when he focuses on it he can still feel air dragging in and out of his lungs. Can feel the thump of his heart like boots hitting the floor, steady. Numbers pile up on the edges of his consciousness, _56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 1, 2,_ and somewhere else the column of his heartbeats, one by one by one, and he knows Sigma is online again.

He knows this before he knows he’s lying on Carolina’s floor, a pillow folded and tucked under his head. She’s close by. He registers her movements, but it’s a moment before he can push through the tangle of sense and data in his head and see.

Bare legs. Taut curves of calves. The seam of the back of her knees. Twin little moles on her left thigh, halfway from knee to hip. Black panties hugging her curves, slightly off center, the elastic edge dimpling her flesh. Her hand comes back to smooth the fabric into place before she steps into her snug black workout pants.

Maine makes a noise.

She turns, fingers deftly tying the drawstring of her pants into a neat little bow. Waist up, she’s bare. Her hair’s still down, rumpled from sleep, the color dulled in the dim room, but her eyes catch what light there is as they land on him.

Maine rolls upright, twists his stiff torso one way and the other until his back cracks. She has her sport bra in one hand now, but takes a step closer to him instead, rests her other palm against the back of his head, and smiles. For that instant the smile makes it all the way up to her eyes and her face looks soft, half-shadowed and framed by her loose red hair.

She pulls his head in to rest against her hip.

He leans, just a little. Though the fabric blunts the warmth of her skin he can still feel it. Something flashes through his mind, the pulse of the femoral artery, a web of nerves under the skin. Hers? Or not hers. Maine tries to pull it back, focus in on it, and it returns, more vivid. In his mind he traces the ball of the hip joint where it curves in the socket, the ligament keeping them joined. The artery settled deep beneath the muscle, protected.

He’s startled back to awareness by Carolina’s thumb rubbing the shell of his ear.

She’s looking down at him quizzically. Maine wonders if he closed his eyes, if he just drifted off. The image disassembles itself and there’s a strange kind of pain that goes with it, a pulling sensation. He furrows his brow trying to pull it back together but it’s gone, and he can’t get it back this time.

He pulls back and rolls to his feet. She has her morning workout before armor training, and he needs to get moving, too. Her touch slips away as he stands, rising to his full height, big again, and she pulls the sport bra over her head and wriggles it into place.

Someone could see him leaving her room, he thinks. Someone probably will. She doesn’t seem worried about that right now. Instead she gives him a smile. Not quite all the way this time. Her face hardens over, closes off, even without her armor on.


	15. Integration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic memories of violence and childhood bullying.

The mess only offers protein shakes in chocolate and something they call “vanilla” but definitely isn’t. No strawberry on board the _Invention_. Maine can eat, sort of, but most solid food’s still more trouble than it’s worth. Hurts his jaw to chew. Hurts his throat to swallow. Docs threaten him with the fucking tube if he doesn’t get enough nutrition down.

He shakes a can of chocolate-flavored sludge end over end and scans the mess. Wash waves him over. He’s with North and York. North’s got a purple glow at his shoulder.

Not where they usually sit.

Maine sighs and slides into a chair. Wash is drinking orange soda through one of those bendy straws he likes. Doesn’t like his mouth touching the can. God knows what those cans have touched he says. Maine plunks his shake down on the table and pops the tab. Wash makes a face at him and plucks a second straw up from his tray, a red one, and sticks it into Maine’s drink. Maine grunts. York gives them a vaguely perplexed look, but he’s mostly talking to North. Neither of them are talking to Wash.

Sigma flashes to life, eager, interested. Maine sucks on the red straw and watches a chalky mouthful snake its way up the curls of the straw until it hits his tongue.

“How come they aren’t allowed to talk to each other?” Wash asks.

“It’s protocol,” North says, like that explains something.

You’re not allowed to talk to them?

Sigma chuckles inside his head. His hologram is impassive. The dissonance is unsettling. Maine looks away from the hologram. _That is the protocol, yes._

“Feedback loops in their Riemann matrices,” York says. He laughs. “Honestly I think it’s more that if they start talking to each other they’ll never stop.”

“You sure you’re not confusing them with yourself?” Wash says dryly.

Maine snorts.

It’s actually a little easier around the others. Didn’t think it would be. He can still feel the movement of Sigma’s thoughts, feel them swell against his own in an off-kilter ebb and flow, but when Sigma’s attention turns outward it gives Maine some rest.

 

Sleep’s gotten harder. So much busier up in his head. Not like he can just ask Sigma to go offline all the time. Supposed to get used to him.

The disappointment in Sigma’s _Are you certain?_ when Maine asks him to go dark for a while sort of gets to him. Wonder what it’s like, being offline. Like sleeping? Or like being reduced to… processes. Maine isn’t really sure how it works.

He knows how it feels when he sprawls out on his back in bed at night, closes his eyes and lets everything go quiet, wordless and dark and rhythmic, breath in breath out, slow thump of his heart. Muscles relaxing, skin warm under the blanket, cool where the air touches it. Comfortable.

(It’s been a few days since Carolina’s floor and he misses the rhythm of her breathing nearby while he slept. The double-time of their rhythms together. Somewhere stored in the back of his mind the echo of them tocks like a metronome.)

But Sigma storms in his mind, especially when it gets quiet. York talks about probabilities and stats and that’s more how Maine expected an AI to be, all numbers, but Sigma’s more than that. A wild scrawl of thoughts and ideas and sketches. Not that he’s disorganized. Not messy exactly. Just so much.

Quiet for a while.

_Are you certain?_

He wakes. Must have slept. Sigma went offline by himself maybe, in the dead hours of the morning. Maine has a vague sense, like a shadow of a memory. A feeling of pulling away. But when he wakes, Sigma is there, and it’s never quiet, not really.

 

He zones out for a few minutes, downs his shake and goes for another, the noise like static, inside and out. Thinks he could probably put his head down on the table, go to sleep, none of them would notice. York and North chattering, Wash looking on, Sigma absorbing it all ravenous and aflame.

 

“How you likin’ the company up there, big guy?”

It takes Maine several seconds to realize York’s talking about him. _To_ him, even. He blinks. York might have repeated himself once.

He feels the flush of pleasure and pride when Sigma speaks, though it isn’t his own.

“Agent Maine and I are integrating successfully,” Sigma says. “Aside from the anticipated side effects, of course.”

“The headaches? Yeah, we had a few of those.” Delta flickers at his side.

“If I may remind you, Agent York, I technically do not experience physical pain.”

York waves a hand. “Eh, you’re in there.”

He says something else, but Maine is lost in the burst of thought in his own head.

_Delta cannot experience physical sensation? That differs from my experience. It cannot be a function of neural depth. Delta and Agent York appear to have achieved an impressive level of neural integration in their relatively short time together…_

You feel pain?

_In a sense. It is possible I do not experience it in the same way you do? It is impossible to say. But I do… feel some measure of the pain that you experience. I am surprised that Delta does not._

Said physical pain. Maybe he feels something.

The fascination burns broader across his mind. Hotter. Almost suffocating. _You are right. You are right! He may very well process Agent York’s sensory input without experiencing it or cataloguing it as physical pain. It is possible that Delta, lacking a significant emotional response to negative stimuli, does not yet identify that stimuli as such…_ Sigma whirls, whitehot. _Perhaps this will change in time. Perhaps it is simply a limitation of the language._

Maine sucks in a long breath through his nose, trying to cool the smothering heat in his head. Doesn’t help much.

Could ask him.

Sigma hums thoughtfully, softening at the fiery edges, and Maine sighs in vague relief. _We could. Not here._

Theta tilts on a tiny holographic skateboard, skids in the air, tumbles to one side. Maine watches out of the corner of his eye. How do you fall off something that’s not real?

First time he’s seen either of them up close, Delta or Theta. They don’t look like Sigma. Their projections are armor, helmets. No faces. Delta carries a little holographic Magnum, Maine notices. No weapons on Theta. Just that skateboard. Wash likes that. “H-hey Theta. Know any tricks on that board?”

“I’m learning some,” Theta chirps.

Wash grins, wider than Maine’s seen in weeks, months even, and he feels weirdly disconnected. Like watching from the other side of a smudged pane of glass. “I could teach you a few, if you want.”

North’s smile doesn’t quite make it all the way up to his eyes. “Theta’s a fast learner,” he says evenly.

Maine looks away. Looking at Theta is giving him a headache. Not really. Not _physical_ pain. Making his head feel too crowded. He traces the curls of the straw with one finger, and he’s thinking about Connie, _MIA, don’t know what they think (he does know), watching through glass_ , gone. CT walking toward their table. Not this one. Regular one. Mug in each hand, coffee in one, instant oatmeal in the other.

 _I am sorry, Agent Connecticut_ —

Sigma _starts_ , a jolt like an electric shock.

Maine realizes he’s starting to crush the empty can in his hand. No one’s looking at him. No one seems to have noticed.

Sigma’s holographic form is the same, steady and collected, but Maine can _feel_ him in his mind and it’s _different_. Eyes dark, wide, fixed on North. No. On Theta.

What?

Sigma blinks, shivers, a ripple of flame, sinks lower. _I beg your pardon. It is nothing._

Maine looks away from them both, blinking the smears of colored light away from his peripheral vision. Feedback loops. Huh. He pulls out the straw, sucks the bottom end clean, flattens the can easily under his palm, focusing on the pressure of the ring of metal against his hand.

* * *

He takes the farthest back seat in the classroom, crams his knees under the narrow strip of desk. Maine's used to not fitting into things, chairs, beds, clothes, rooms. Classrooms feel especially tight. No good memories there. Disapproving looks, head-shaking, struggling to scratch out words with a stylus that never seemed to fit in his hand even before he hit that growth spurt that turned everything too small. Endless ticking second hands of dread waiting to be called out for speech therapy and trying to knock together sounds and meanings in his head and force them out of his mouth for what felt like hours until finally they'd send him back to slink into the back of the room, and leave him in peace.

School meant fights too. Shoves and punches and kicks and blood and bruises and teeth knocked loose, school meant adrenaline screaming through his limbs and rage boiling in his gut and feeling cornered at every turn. UNSC got him off Mykolaev before it turned to glass, but it was school that taught him to fight, long before that.

This classroom isn't so bad, even if his tree trunk legs don't fit under the desk. Here, at least, no one expects him to talk or write. Carolina in the row in front of him taps on her datapad throughout the class. No one else takes notes. She and Wash and South are the only ones left in the squad without AIs.

He wouldn't need notes anyway. Sigma soaks up everything. Maine can feel him filing away every word the Director says. That's one good thing about Sigma. Can store all those words and read them back later, slower. Of course they still have to fall through Maine's head before they can land, and it's jarring, like handfuls of pebbles thrown into water, sinking to the bottom.

Sigma sucks it all up voraciously. When the topic turns to rampancy—Maine's not really sure he understands the concept but if it doesn't affect his combat effectiveness it's probably not important—Sigma's hum gets so loud it's like an actual vibration in the back of his head and he finds himself gritting his teeth.

 _I apologize_. _I did not mean to distress you._

He's not distressed. It's just noisy in there.

_I will attempt to be quieter._

He focuses on the back of Carolina’s neck where her hair's pulled back in its usual low ponytail, hiding her neural port. Her hair's messy today, bangs loose around her face, not pulled back tight the way she does it for training and missions. When the stream of words becomes too much he thinks about working the elastic out of her hair with his fingers and letting her hair fall over his hands.

"AI theory is like vehicle maintenance, South.” There’s an argument happening. Carolina is saying something important. The rest, he’s not sure he cares. Coffee maker. Vacuum cleaner. Light bulb. Sigma catalogs each of these.

"I don't have one either, South." Carolina says, her voice going thin and sharp. Things have never been good between her and South. South doesn't like Carolina. It's not the same both ways. Carolina likes people fine as long as they don't threaten her and they leave her alone. He's a lot the same. Maine doesn't know the twins well. Doesn’t know what it is between South and Carolina, doesn’t really understand it. But he sees her tense as soon as South starts talking. Can see the tension there in the angle of her head, the lift of her shoulders. Wonder if _he_ looks like that when York talks.

Only because she gave hers to Maine, York points out. Shoots a pointed look at Maine, out of his good eye. Maine suppresses a growl. Leave her alone. In his head Sigma perks up, curious.

"He needed to be able to communicate after his injury," Carolina says. Trying to stay even, but Maine can hear the edge, and the rest of them are idiots if they don't. They know. So what if they know? But it bothers her. That's what matters. Don’t bother her.

South snorts. Oh yeah. That's the reason. She’s a real hero. Not like Maine had much to say anyway.

Sigma processes that. _Does that offend you?_

Maine shrugs. Realizes a moment late he's actually shrugged, though Sigma's question is only inside his head. But it doesn't offend him. It's the truth. He never did have many things to say. Not to them.

Carolina's spine goes ramrod straight, though. He sees her chin lift. Can imagine how her eyes harden. She doesn't have to defend him. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what they think. But it matters to her.

Don't touch her.

"I would like to say just how appreciative the two of us are for Carolina's sacrifice," Sigma says, smooth and even, not a single blip of hesitation. “Agent Carolina, if anyone can excel without an AI unit, it is you.”

“Thank you, Sigma.” Carolina turns around to look at them, and her eyes soften a little as she nods. It shuts the rest of them up. Maine nods. Thanks.

"And Agent Texas, of course. That goes without saying."

"Right." Carolina swivels forward again.

Why did you say that to her?

_What do you mean?_

Texas.

_What about her?_

But Sigma isn't listening anymore. He's not being quieter. He's asking questions. That's not quieter. For all his words Sigma sure does have some strange definitions.

Difficult, the Counselor says, something would be difficult for an entity like Sigma. ENTITY files away somewhere important. Sigma turns the word over and over in the space of half a second. It flashes behind Maine's eyes dizzyingly. Entity. Entity. Entity.

"Well, as the Director always says," Sigma replies, "It is important to have ambition."

Maine has no idea what Sigma's talking about. The overhead lights are starting to stab at his eyes. Wish he had his helmet.

Carolina glances back at him again. A quick glance, but risky enough for her.

 

It's only when he makes it back to his quarters after class that he realizes he hasn't heard Sigma for the time it took to walk there. But a moment later he's back again, humming with words and thoughts and symbols and turning a jumble of signs over and over in Maine's mind. Arranging them into a pattern.

* * *

His name pops back up on the mission roster finally. Recon. Some damn moon drop probably. Maine sighs.

Sigma crackles. _It will be our first mission together._

Maine snorts. Not a real mission.

Sigma sounds amused. _Nevertheless, I look forward to working with you._

 

“We have reason to believe that CT and the Insurrectionist leader have returned or will be returning planetside after the confrontation at the scrapyard.” Carolina’s mouth is set hard and thin, her hands spreading data over the holotable in quick, sharp movements. “We will be staking out several strategic locations with known Insurrectionist activity. Florida and Wyoming will surveil the shipyards at Longshore. North and York will take the tether. Maine, Wash, South.” (She doesn’t look at them. Any of them.) “You will observe the lunar spaceport.”

South crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re sending us to the fucking moon.”

“It’s the most obvious pit stop between Chlea and the belt.”

“Right.” The _t_ sound catches sharply on South’s teeth.

“You have your order.” The blue diagram of the spaceport collapses into nothing but Maine feels it pulled into his consciousness, feels Sigma moving in the virtual space, feels dizzy, like he’s in two places at once. “This mission is recon only. Remain in cover and do not engage. Should you spot the leader or CT, report back to me immediately and await further orders.”

 

They’re the first stop, dropped on the moon before Niner takes the others planetside. It’s a civilian spaceport and Maine wonders how they’re supposed to blend in with all their specialized armor. There’s others in armor of course, troops and security and various mercs. And the belt workers. Lots of them. Maine remembers that from childhood, belt miners commuting from planetside to work in space, four weeks on end and then a week to go home. Remembers when his father would leave to go back, brown and gray worksuit. How when he left it was a like a long-held breath let out.

“Okay,” Wash says as they enter the main terminal. He’s still the highest of them on the leaderboard. “Maine, you’ll probably be the least conspicuous on the intersystem concourse, just—don’t let anyone shove you in a cryo pod.” Maine snorts. “South, you want outer system or—”

“Or what, Wash? Stake out the damn Starbucks? You want a frappuccino?”

“South.”

Some kind of look passes between them. Maine shifts from one foot to the other.

“I don't like it either,” Wash says in a low, tight voice. “Let’s just get it done.”

South exhales sharply. “Yeah. Whatever.”

 

Intersystem is a lot of military, mercs and contractors. The few civilians are the most uncomfortable to look at, nervous clusters of people waiting to be packed in ice for the first time and probably the last. Colonization’s a joke, has been since the war began, but they keep trying, sending little pockets of settlers out to the far reaches of the galaxy to pitch a tent city manufactured by the lowest bidder. Insurance policy, maybe. Stick enough of them out there, maybe the Covies won’t find them all, maybe they’ll make it. Unless they starve from lack of resources, or the low-budget sky dome rips open and they bleed out their atmo and no one’ll ever know, until the comms go dark and maybe a couple months later, if the world's valuable enough to check up on, somebody gets out there and finds them all frozen, perfectly preserved under a coat of frosty gray. Like Pompeii only ice instead of fire.

Maine finds himself a corner seat, where a noisy group of Marines block him well enough from general view. He eyeballs the monitors. Hang out here for an hour or two, move up and down the concourse, find another place to sit. Don’t want to be seen in one place too long. The jarheads are loudest thing in the terminal right now. Good cover.

He keeps an ear to their conversation. More interesting than what else is going on. Catches a few words about where they’re headed. Front lines, it sounds like. Glassed this, groundside that. Groundside the only place humans ever win. Fucked in space. Covies have always been better. Can weave through slipspace with needle precision, can melt cities from orbit. On the ground, face to monstrous face, a chance at least. Not much. Something.

Shit’s bad. Always has been. Every year they creep further in, every year the circle of human-occupied space tightens some more. Front lines were a special kind of hell but at least you felt like you were doing something. At least you could shoot them, kill them, rip them limb from limb. Watch the fuckers _die_. The unearthly stench of plasma-burnt human flesh mingling with gunsmoke and alien gore, that smell of Elite viscera bleeding from crushed exoskeletons and methane stench from downed Grunts. You never forget that smell. It bleeds through the armor’s shitty air filtration and it’s thick, rank, you get rookies trying not to puke inside their helmets. Color of it’s eerie too, not like any human battlefield, as much fuschia and green as red. The roar of the Brutes and screech of the Jackals, the sickening rattle of needler rounds burying themselves in your buddy over there, the tick-tick window you’ve got to throw yourself clear before your buddy goes up, human shrapnel, the explosive crystalline shards detonating and setting off any grenades the unlucky fuck had on ‘em, taking anyone close right along with.

Innies feel fucking domestic after that.

Wonder how many planets have been glassed while they’ve been chasing these fucks around oil rigs and asteroid belts.

Maine sighs.

Not paying attention again. Shit. Not like him to get lost in thought like that. The memories are clinging, cloying at the edges of his mind even as he pulls his awareness to the surface again, scanning the terminal. It’s sluggish. Strange.

Sigma.

Come on. Mission. Need to stay sharp.

_The memories are your own. I am only observing._

 

Wash checks in on the hour. It’s too quiet. Why Maine hates recon. Restless. Nothing to do but think. And whatever he thinks about Sigma catches hold of, sinks into. Pulling Maine’s attention with him. Maine doesn’t do this—get lost in thought, lose awareness of what’s happening around him. Not in the field especially.

The drab brown armor of the belt workers crossing the concourse becomes the sound of a door opening, tension climbing up his spine. Nameless fear, a soft voice, a narrow street, a window with the glass smashed out.

Teeth gritting, he drags himself away from the memory, only to have Sigma catch on the next that comes. _I am only curious._ Like he can’t help himself.

 

He gets up to pace the concourse, past gates and gates and ever-shifting crowds. Announcements chirp over the loudspeaker. Last call for planetary shuttle, destination: Volutia. Maine knows the name. Saw it on some signs. The skyscraper. The freeway.

He can see it all, the city. Not skyline, not from ground level. Spread below like a map. Maine furrows his brow. He focuses in on a spot, he can see clearer. A gray block midcity, blanketed in gray and grit, cordoned off, roadblocks, closed checkpoints, a no-fly zone. Dead zone.

We did that?

He blinks hard. He's stopped moving. Standing stock still in the middle of the concourse. Few people staring at him. Should take off his helmet probably. Less conspicuous. Don't like it, though.

He isn’t doing well. Missing things.

_I have been processing and storing both visual and audio data, Agent Maine. At this time, there is no need for concern. I have found no sign of either target._

"Hey asshole, move it or lose it."

Maine growls and refrains from planting an elbow in the side of some random merc. Force amps are still active, probably put the fucker through a wall. Not for this mission though.

 

Two hours becomes four becomes six, and the call comes.

“Pack it in, team.” Wash sounds flat, tired. “Extraction at the end of D Concourse.”

 

“Who found her,” South asks Wash sharply, as the pelican alights on the tarmac.

“Carolina will—”

“Bullshit.” South charges up the ramp before it touches the ground, spots North and York in the back. “Oh, good. So it’s the strangler and the ‘stache. Perfect.”

“Buckle in,” Niner says, more tersely than usual.

South hisses, dropping into her seat and yanking down the restraint.

 

Maine feels a kind of tired he’s not used to after missions. Head feels tight, jarred. Messy. Things knocked around in there. Too much quiet, too much noise. What York was talking about maybe, the implantation headaches, if that’s what it is, the swelling, throbbing feeling in his skull. Headache. Maybe.

Sigma is concerned. _Agent Maine, perhaps you should visit the medical bay._

Fuck that. Just got out of that place. Not going back.

 

He stomps to a training room instead. FILSS comes online. “Hello, Agent Maine. You are not scheduled for a training session until 0800 hours. Would you like to run an elective session?”

He growls. Give him a drone scenario on Legendary.

_Agent Maine, you have been relatively inactive. A warm-up exercise would be optimal at this time…_

He’s not supposed to argue. Just say it.

“FILSS, please run combat scenario 27-J.”

Every strike, every blow, every burn in his muscles is a relief. Doesn’t drive the pressure out of his head, not really. Just makes it a little easier to ignore.


	16. Freefall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canonical violence and character death.

Maine’s done some orbital drops. Even got offered a spot in ODST during his Infantry days. Turned it down. Rather stay feet on the ground. You’re good once you get there. It’s the drop that fucks you up, the burn and the Gs and the tight space, dropping like a tinfoil wrapped potato through sizzling atmo to hit the ground and come out firing. Can do it if he has to.

They pack him in early. Have to. Don’t know when they’ll need him. Wash has the transmitter. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” he says, grinning and waving the device around. Maine grumbles. Asshole. Even Carolina cracks a smile as she settles him into the pod, snapping the harness around him. She has the two blue plasma rifles from the vault, one on each hip. Sigma is studying them, comparing them to the catalog of Covenant weaponry pulled from the ship’s database. Maine is thinking of how good they look against her armor, how much better they’ll look flashing deadly in her hands.

For once, he wants to speak. The worlds pull themselves up as far as his throat and then they catch and what drags out is a gravelly rumble. Her eyes flick up.

He nudges at the twist of flame in his mind. Sigma flickers curiously.

Don’t ask questions. Just say it.

_You want me to question Agent Carolina’s judgment regarding our mission?_

Maine huffs. No. Just say it.

Sigma puzzles for a moment before flashing at the edge of his vision, projecting himself over Maine’s shoulder. “Agent Carolina. ‘Too high.’” The inflection's all wrong but at least he says the words, and Carolina’s lips quirk up with recognition.

She glances quickly over her shoulder, then rests a hand on his breastplate and meets his eyes. “Oh, don’t be a baby,” she says, fondly. “Sync?”

Maine rumbles again, this time with relief. Nods.

She smiles, the tired lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling up, and lets her fingertips brush the side of his helmet quickly. “See you soon.”

 

The brute shot is packed into the weapon rack, close at his side. Restless, Maine eyes the long curve of the blade where it lies flat against the side of the pod. Sigma examines the weapon with interest, taking note of its ammo type and firing rate and jam probability. He maps out the curve of the blade, the sharpness of it, produces a number of attacks with different angles, force, momentum. Maine takes in as much as he can as it all flashes by.

He thinks of the fight on the flatbed and Sigma is in his memories instantly, pulling up the noise and enemies and motion of the truck swerving on the road.

_This is where you were injured._

Maine shrugs, uncomfortable with the sympathy in Sigma’s tone. Soldiers get wounded. It happens.

 _It was because of your injury that Agent Carolina chose to pair me with you,_ Sigma muses. _While the incident was unfortunate, I hope that you will come to consider this outcome a positive one._

Shrug again. Would’ve gotten an AI sooner or later.

_Nevertheless, it is my hope that you will find our particular partnership beneficial._

Hope so too.

 

They’re dropping well outside the city this time, a place called the Longshore Shipyards. Name doesn’t mean anything to Maine but Sigma has pulled all the available information from the _Invention_ ’s computers and lays the whole location out in full color illustration for Maine, down to the rust streaks along the ridges of corrugated metal that makes up the walls of the warehouse. _Satellite photos_ , Sigma explains, _with some of the gaps filled in. I am able to derive the missing information with what I believe to be relative accuracy. Would you like to see inside the compound?_

He takes Maine on a tour.

It all comes in so clear. The diagrams FILSS used to download to their HUDs don’t compare to the detail Sigma can render right inside his head. He can smell motor oil, hot metal in the sun, rust and mud and salt water. How?

Sigma flickers, gratified at his reaction. _I am drawing from the memories you already possess of such things. I am merely attempting to render as realistic a representation of the environment as possible, in order to better prepare you for your mission._

Do more.

Sigma lights up with satisfaction.

Should've had him in medical. Would've cut way down on the boredom.

Sigma fills his head with the sights and sounds and smells of the environment until the siren sounds, calling him back to his present surroundings. FILSS counts down from 30 and Maine settles himself against the crash seat, pulls in a deep breath, feeling the solidness at his back and the restraints across his chest. The clank and scrape of metal on the outside of the pod, the hard jolt as the pod fires from the ship and they hurtle toward the planet.

 

Maine doesn’t count the minutes it takes to fall.

He mutes the audio feed in the helmet to escape from the deafening roar. Blunted by layers of gel and polycarbonate, it still comes through, but softer. The heat builds and builds in the cramped pod, armor’s climate control working overtime to keep it even remotely tolerable inside the suit. Air pumped into the helmet’s heavy and warm on his face and in his throat. The undersuit wicks sweat away from his skin, but inside the helmet he can feel it run down his temples. Armor’s safe. Armor has him. But the outside atmosphere presses in from all sides, trying to get at him. Even the walls of the pods feel close. Maine curls his fists.

He thinks of Carolina’s hands buckling him in and thinks of rope on his bare skin. Thinks of her waiting, watching him, hands on him waiting for the tension in his musclees to release.

Sigma’s curiosity floods hot into the memory and Maine tenses again. Pulls away from it. Think about something else.

They’ve given him a feed into their helmet cams so he knows what’s going on when he drops into the middle of it. Maine pulls up Wash’s first. Pinned down, not much to see, so he jumps through the rest until he finds Carolina’s.

Hers is all action and movement and bright bursts of plasma. A Warthog skids wildly across her vision, driver and passengers slumped motionless in the seats. Sky over sea over cement as she flips, lands, strafing blue fire.

The pod’s really shaking now, rattling and screeching, stifling hot. Aerobraking now. Close.

Inhale. Exhale. Maine shudders. Over soon. Closes his eyes, Sigma pouring through his armor, and he feels a slight change in the pressure of the gel layer, comforting, steadying. Close.

The pod slams into the ground. Maine’s breath exits his lungs. Pod’s shock absorbers take a little of the impact. Armor’s stabilizers take a little more. Still feels like his fucking spine’s been rammed through his skull. No time to stop his head spinning from the force, no time to let the snow clear from his eyes, just enough to roll his shoulders back and tear the restraints off. He doesn't wait for the pod to open. One good hit with his force amps breaks the seal, a kick sends the hatch flying, and Maine breathes, the armor drawing in a burst of fresh air at long last.

His visor dims, softening the sudden glare of rusty daylight pouring in, the early sun bleeding across the water. Docks. Faintly through his air filter, the smell of copper, sand and salt. Sigma was dead-on.

Black and red helmets swivel his way, and he feels the quick shuffle of Sigma in his memories, but it’s quieter this time, somewhere off at the edge of his consciousness. Doesn’t pull his awareness away. His eyes land on bare arms, muscle and sweat gleaming in the sun, and something goes _click_.

"Agent Maine," Sigma says thoughtfully. Out loud. He’s showing himself to everyone, flickering above Maine’s shoulder, and Maine wonders fleetingly whether that’s protocol. Nobody ever said. "Isn't that the soldier from the freeway? The one who shot you in the throat?"

It’s him. Same bastard. Maine growls, curling fingers into fists, feeling the ground under his feet, steady. Where he can win.

Gonna make him eat his own face.

Sigma likes that. He almost purrs, coming in as thick in Maine’s head as in his ear.

"I thought so. Sic 'im."

 

They are two the same, not just one—the two from the freeway. Carolina’s opponent from the flatbed, the one with the emblem of lips inside a heart painted on the chestpiece, drawing dual mags on him now. He remembers and doesn’t—didn’t notice it back then, they were just two enemies, but Sigma plucks the details from his memories, flickers recognition, and he sees it—the same two. How they move as a team, defending each other.

He sees the Warthog swinging in on his left, doesn’t need Sigma for that, but he feels what Sigma does as his hands catch the bumper and push and hold. Could’ve dodged, rolled out of the way, but why, when he can—

Sigma doesn’t speak, but Maine sees the flash of numbers, warnings on his HUD, and understands.

Sigma is reconfiguring the power distribution in his armor. Pouring it into the upper-body force amps when Maine holds, shoves, tears the bumper off in an easy twist. Just like that, power routes to the lower amps as his foot connects with the undercarriage, the force of it sending the hog flying across the docks. Even Maine’s surprised how far it sails.

Sigma flows hot and thrilled through the circuits of his armor, floods his mind with pride.

And then something snags in there, even as Maine charges and Carolina comes in firing from the corner and the heart soldier rolls to dodge plasma bursts that singe blue into the concrete. A blip, and then a pull back, not quite like Sigma going offline but like him drawing away.

No time to think about it though. Time to get this fucker.

 

He may be the brute but in the field Maine rarely feels weighted down by his body. He can tear through any obstacle, crush everything in his path. He's the big guy, the tank, the beast, he's Maine, and they're afraid of him. They should be.

They know Carolin, too. _Bitch_ , the one with the heart emblem sneers, a thrown knife end over end catching the sun before sinking into one of those bright blue barrels. But they never fear her as much as they should. Never know they're about to be dead until they've got a face full of her boot and plasma between the eyes.

Carolina keeps Knives engaged, leaves Maine to his prize staggering to his feet. Maine looms, cracks his knuckles. He’s taller, broader, and the Innies don't have power armor, just basic body armor like Infantry or mercs. Modded probably, but none of them can match a Freelancer loadout. Shitbag never should’ve gotten the jump on him in the first place. Even on the freeway with the ground moving under him.

Never again. Feet on solid ground. And no pistol this time.

He pushes at Sigma for something creative, but Sigma’s half there, staticky, distant.

No emblem on his breastplate. Just the bare arms. Leaving weak points, for show. Maine thinks it’d be fun to take both arms off, show him what he thinks about that, but there are still Innies bursting out of the warehouse in waves, keeping Wash and York and the twins busy. Better not to waste time.

Arms is up now and throws a wide haymaker. Sloppy. Panicked. Maine catches the fist easily in his palm. The gold visor looks at his fist, then up at Maine. Maine tightens his grip. Twists. The Innie crumples to his knees again, veins standing out on his forearm as he struggles. Maine barely feels it. 

He draws back with his left fist.

It comes back in a rush. Fire, heat, traffic roar, the swaying unsteadiness of the flatbed, ringing shots in rapid succession, falling into the smoky sky, bleeding from the throat, and it all pours straight into his fist, into his amps, and connects with a deeply satisfying crack.

The black helmet bounces across the concrete, cracked open across the front, and Maine tosses the ragdoll body to the ground, the head falling to one side.

 _Good work_ , Sigma crackles, pleased.

Where’d you go?

_I did not leave._

Maine shrugs, and looks around for Carolina.

 

Out here, the burn of Sigma in his mind doesn’t feel so alien.

Sigma loves the brute shot. He’s full of ideas, things that wouldn't have occurred to Maine—or maybe they would have, just not in so much detail. But Sigma generates dozens of combinations, showing him how he can execute different moves by switching between blade and barrel, how he can take out groups of enemies with different combinations. How to stab, slice, swing, for different results. How to use the weapon for blocking with minimal damage.

The Innies have moved to high ground and Carolina’s followed. Fighting two of them atop one of the lower outbuildings. How to get up? Sigma’s already highlighted the location of an access ladder on the side of the building. Rusty. Groans under his armored weight, but holds.

Carolina’s plasma rifles are gone. (One of them snapped at the hinge, the other slashed apart by a knife with heart-shaped cutout in it, he didn’t catch it but Sigma sees, Sigma sees everything.) She’s got an electrified baton, keeping the Innie with the mechanical arm at a distance, still focused on Knives.

Maine figures he’ll help simplify things.

“Catch.” Carolina gives a cocky tilt of her helmet as she kicks Robot Arm on Maine’s direction. He’s small, easy to grab and slam into the ground. But he’s quick. Bendy. Not where Maine expects him to be, when he lunges again.

_Wait!_

Robot Arm catches him with a heel, and Maine’s momentum carries him ass over teakettle across the roof, crashes right into Carolina, carrying her with him. Fuck.

She grunts, rolls to her feet and she’s gone like lightning before Maine’s off the ground. Time to get creative.

Robot Arm catches Maine’s first grenade in his robot hand. Tosses it back. Motherfucker.

 _Don’t run!_ Sigma urges, rushing forward in his mind all at once and throwing the overshield up. And Maine waits, trusts him, because he can _see_ it, three moves ahead, and he’s already drawing back as the grenade detonates, knocking out the overshield but barely touching the standard. The smoke hides him, and he hurls the heavy weapon away from himself in a throw he can feel Sigma design, calculate, and implement in the space of seconds—he can feel the armor guiding his movement, visual clearing just in time to hear the enemy soldier scream and curse.

Maine charges again, scoops up the brute shot and fires a quick succession of grenades, blasting his target off the docks, into the water.

He looks up just in time to see Carolina kick Knives off the roof. Helmet flies off into the water, blonde hair spilling out bright in the sun, but she clings to the edge. Carolina moves up to finish. Maine grabs the sparking metal arm off the shingle and cocks his helmet at her. She snorts and shrugs.

Thanks, the Innie gasps, grabbing the metal hand as Maine holds it over the edge and yanks upward. Her eyes travel up. What, she says. Fuck.

Maine shrugs and lets go.

She falls, slamming on the edge of the concrete, tumbling off into the water.

He looks to Carolina but she’s already gone, back down to the dock to help mop up the rest. Maine follows.

 

“Wash, York, with me!” Carolina calls over the radio. “Dakotas, Maine, keep the LZ clear for us. We’ll have to move fast once we’re out.” Makes sense. Capture alive’s a lot more work than kill. Not Maine’s specialty.

“Roger that!” North returns.

North scopes along the roofline while South and Maine sweep the docks for stragglers. Radio chatter’s still audible. The recon team, Wyoming and Florida, joining Carolina’s team in the warehouse. They’ve been out here a few days, scouting. Probably how they knew CT was here.

But it’s not long before the chatter goes quiet. Carolina barking at Wyoming, Wy and York bickering, Carolina cutting them off tersely. A lull. Carolina again—cursing at something. Choppy exchange between Wash and York.

Then nothing.

Must be they got in.

 

_By the way, Agent Maine, I believe you were correct._

About what?

_About Delta and his means of processing sensory input._

Huh.

Stillness now. On the radio and on the docks. North keeps scanning the perimeter. South kicks bodies into the water, a restless anger in her limbs, moving as if on tight springs. Silt churns up with every splash, muddying the waves.

You talked to Delta? Here?

_Only briefly._

When you pulled away. You were talking to him.

_We were warned that communicating directly with our brothers while fully interfaced with our host might cause feedback loops. Disorientation. I withdrew partially to avoid distracting you._

Brothers?

Sigma hums thoughtfully. _A figure of speech, of course._

Huh.

He finds Carolina’s blue plasma rifles on the ground. The broken one could be fixed, he thinks. Pulls the knife out of the barrel of the other. Might be salvageable too. He collects both rifles, and after a moment’s thought, takes the knife too. Maybe she’d like it for a trophy.

“Perhaps we should join the rest of the squad inside,” Sigma suggests. Maine jumps. Always a little jarring when he talks out loud. “It is possible they will require backup.”

Maine grunts. Said to stay out here.

South’s staring at him. Cocks her helmet. On the corner of the roof, North’s lowered his scope and is eyeing Maine too, curious.

They think he’s talking. Think Sigma’s talking for him.

Then there’s a rumble and a burst of bubbles from beneath the water.

The waves part and the rumble becomes a roar of propulsion and a pod shuttle shoots through the foam and into the air in a long arc. One of those little emergency evac shuttles. See ‘em on a lot of the inner colonies. So the rich fucks can shoot their asses into space if the planet’s hit by Covies. Just get shot down in atmosphere, usually.

Maine has his hand on the brute shot and North’s already drawn a bead on the pod but it’s gone too quick.

North curses under his breath. South just stares after the pod as it vanishes, hands curled into fists. For a minute or two she is perfectly, deadly still, like she’s stopped breathing.

The sun’s rising over the water, the red of it fading, dispersed in the morning haze. The pod’s trajectory is burned into Maine’s mind, and when a spark on the horizon appears he almost takes it for the shuttle returning. For a moment the sky appears in overlay, the present and a minute ago arcing across each other, and then Niner is calling on the radio and roaring over the waves to land on the empty docks.

The squad trickles out of the building with a wary haste, York looking back over his shoulder again and again. The twins file in, Maine behind them, and it’s only after he takes his spot on the front wall by the hatch that he sees her, that black armor, stalking on board with heavy, angry strides.

Carolina behind her, pacing just a little quicker to keep up, spine like a knife-edge.

She steps in and stands facing the airlock, back to the rest of them. Nothing but silence. A bad one. Tight, terse movements all around, eyes down, cold thud of boots on the floor. No one says a word as they lift off the docks. Carolina doesn't look at anyone. Not even him.

 

In debrief the Director barks at Carolina and Texas, and ignores the rest of them. Carolina holds herself deadly rigid, like she might collapse totally if she lets a single muscle relax.

They should all be getting dressed down good here,  _you should all be ashamed of yourselves_ , but they aren't. Instead, they get a sharp reminder that they're expected to work as a team, and a dismissal. Texas and Carolina are to stay. Anger flares in Maine's gut. Yeah, he knows—it’s COC, she is the squad leader. Responsible. But there’s TEXAS in the number one spot on the board. But not the squad leader. Yet always there. Responsible? It’s wrong. Who is in command. Who outranks who. Who is to blame when the mission fails.

Sigma is very interested in this. Maine feels a map spread out over the surface of his mind, a chart of ranks and names, feels Sigma shuffling around the positions of the Alpha Squad, puzzling.

Agent Texas doesn't say a word, doesn’t look at a single one of them as they file out and no one says a word to her. Maine gives her a long look as he passes. Her helmet never turns his way.

An hour later FILSS tells them all to prepare for a jump.


	17. Unrest

No one looks like they've slept. North and York both have shadow under their eyes. Even Wash has worried lines in his face, even though Maine heard him snoring up a storm in the night.

He’s not sure if he slept. He tried. It’s harder to sleep these days.

A strained quiet stretches through the mess, broken only by a few murmurs and the clatter of trays. Terrible as it is, the quiet’s a relief to Maine. Not much quiet lately. Inside his head or out.

Wash's shoulders hunch. He doesn’t take the seat across from Maine, but the next one over, an angle between them. Maine chugs down his first protein shake, watching Wash stare at the table. No tray for him. No breakfast. Just a can of orange juice he opens with an echoing snap before shoving a plain straw into it. Even then, he pauses to rub the metal edges around the opening clean with his thumb. Maine shakes his head slightly. Shouldn't do that. Cut yourself.

"I won't cut myself," Wash says dully. He keeps staring at the straw, not drinking from it.

Maine thinks of CT sitting at their table, stirring extra cinnamon into her oatmeal.

He can't think of what she would say. Can't think of what he would ask her.

 

Connie was what they called her in the beginning. Nicknames for almost everyone. Cal for California, Z for Arizona. North and South for the Dakota twins. Ginny and West for the Virginias, not siblings but partners from their previous assignment who got sent to Freelancer together. Vermont and Montana fought over Monty but then Montana washed out with injuries during training and Vermont was just Vee after that.

The bulk of them came in together, twenty-eight recruits gathered at Reach to deploy on the _Invention_. The rest they picked up along the way, trickling in over the course of training. They were 34, then 48. And then there were washouts. Deaths. One desertion, before Connie. Or that's all they heard about. Maine suddenly thinks of the bodies they never saw, and wonders if there were more.

There was Sanguinus and the training on the sim bases, weeks and weeks of it. Some bad injuries there. The uneasy feeling that some of the sim troopers took their battles pretty seriously. But before they had time to think too much about that, the real missions started.

That was the progression of things: sims, Innies, Covies. That's how it was supposed to be. They haven't seen any action against the Covenant since joining Freelancer but that's next. They're still being trained. Forged into solo units to drop behind enemy lines. The magic bullet. The end of the war.

Maine never figured that was anything less than a worthy goal.

 

 _Traitor_ is a strange thought. Foreign to Maine. Why? A loyalty and then a change. Strange. Like you thought somebody was right, and then you changed your mind.

Nobody is right. War is just survival. Innie bastards trying to survive too. Not wrong. Just stupid, while the Covenant glasses its way across the galaxy. Wiping them out. Doesn’t matter who’s right when you’re both dead.

If they survive, humans, they’ll all just keep on trying to kill each other. No question about that.

Maine thinks he’d rather be alive than dead though. So, fight.

There is no _why_ , there are no answers for death. You don't look for them. Spaced. Equipment failure. Jetpack malfunction. KIA. No answers. No questions.

This leaves a question. A mutter in Maine's throat that joins with the prickle in the back of his head. He swallows. The unease remains.

 _You and Agent Connecticut…_ Sigma probes.

Connie. CT.

_You and CT. You were friends?_

He doesn't know. Were they friends? He remembers the feeling of her damp hand rubbing his freshly shaved scalp. Remembers the flip of her hair when she tossed her head, the quick dart of her sharp brown eyes. Used to eat breakfast with her—no. She ate with him. Her choice? Sat at his table. Like Wash.

Could've been friends. Why not?

 _Why not,_ Sigma echoes.

Because _…_

It wasn't a question, but Maine finds himself answering.

Because not enough time?

Sigma attaches to this. _You would have been friends._

Maybe.

There's a blank space, a missing piece, but Maine can’t find the shape of it. Wish he could _…_ see her again. Talk to her? Say what? What would she say?

Don't know.

Missing. Missing. Missing. What's missing?

Sigma's response is a flush of curious data, and then the same silence.

Space.

 

Carolina hasn’t show up to the mess for breakfast, and it gnaws at Maine’s stomach like secondhand hunger.

She always eats. Have to. Speed unit works up a hell of an appetite, she says. The mod shoots her up with some adrenaline cocktail so her body can keep up with the armor. Works, but it taxes the hell out of her metabolism. She always eats. After missions, before missions. She doesn’t skip meals. Can’t.

Finishing off his second shake, he worries the edge of the can between his teeth, denting the metal.

He gets up from the table and Wash’s curious eyes following him barely register because he has a place he needs to go and his path is projected in his head with a strangely sharp clarity even for him. Two cans into the trash chute with a clatter. Restlessness climbs his limbs, and in the back of his head he wonders if his own armor mods are malfunctioning, misfiring or something, because the pull he feels in his muscles isn’t totally unlike the drag he gets when he finally slows down after overtaxing the force amps. The urge to keep moving, the _gogogo_ sensation that leaks up into his head and sometimes he has to go lift or beat the shit out of a heavy bag right after a mission just to settle down.

He almost slams into Agent Florida going around a corner and that’s when he realizes how fast he’s moving.

Hey there big guy. Florida’s unrattled greeting retreats in an echo behind him before it’s all out of his mouth. He feels his footsteps beating the floor in quick, even pulses, _one two three four five six seven eight one two…_

He’s aware of plexi under his gloves, tiny sine curves of wire running through the glass, and he wonders why he’s touching it but then there she is. He’s in the observation deck over the training room. He pauses. Tries to remember walking up the stairs, because he had to have climbed them to get here. Oh. There it is. The memory slides back into place, step step step step one two three four. It’s fine. He hasn’t lost anything.

“Again, FILSS.”

There’s something to make him slow down.

She’s running hand-to-hand scenarios. A series of moving holo targets, green for enemy, red for friendly. Harder than it looks. The friendlies move fast, get in the way. Looks random at a glance, but it’s all based on real combat mapping.

He can feel Sigma analyzing the target map. Feels like him breathing. Data in, data out. Maine blinks, shakes his head because suddenly he can _see_ them—the enemy soldiers represented by the little green circles of light. They look like the Innies from Longshore.

His vision goes wrong.

At first it’s just a blur, and Maine squints, wondering what’s wrong with his helmet and why the edges of her have gone fuzzier and then, no, the edges are there, they’re just _two._ She doubles before his eyes, an overlay of another Carolina, slightly out of phase with the first.

They both drop every enemy combatant to the floor, crumpled heaps of red and black armor and bare arms and boots and they both go still, half a second out of sync.

Maine feels an inexplicable surge of anger.

What did you do?

_I apologize for alarming you. I assure you I have not interfered with Agent Carolina’s training program. I was merely running a hypothetical scenario._

Maine nods slowly. What scenario?

“Run it again.”

Sigma flickers thoughtfully and for once, he doesn’t answer.

The silence isn’t comfortable anymore. It fills with the blip of the hit targets, colors changing. There’s a hollowness in his chest, helpless behind the glass—shouldn’t be here. Should be somewhere else.

But he makes his next training session on time, or at least FILSS doesn’t tell him he’s late, and the hours wring out under the smash of his fists and the pulse of rifle fire.

 

Wash nods to Maine when he comes in at the end of the day. "She okay?"

Maine pauses, cocks his head.

"You know who I mean." Wash waves a hand impatiently. "Is she okay?"

Maine grunts. Okay. What's okay about failing a mission and losing a teammate. Of course she's not okay.

A flicker appears at his shoulder.

"Agent Maine and I went to check on her this morning,” Sigma says smoothly. “She is—okay." The minute pause is frustrating. Actually, the whole statement is, though Maine can't quite figure out why. The rest of it's true. True enough.

"Oh. Well. That's… good." Wash sounds a little perplexed, and there's a slight pinch starting in the middle of his brow "Okay."

"The best thing you can do for Agent Carolina right now is get your rest and resume your training," Sigma advises. "She will need the rest of her team to be in top shape, don't you think?"

"Y-yeah." Wash is eyeing Maine, but doesn't argue. "Yeah, I guess so."

Maine flattens himself into the bunk he’s far too big for, heels hanging off the end, and thinks about Carolina’s floor.

She'll find him in his room, if she wants to.

She doesn't come, though.

 

Sliptime settles over the ship, still as death.

The jump crew seem different this time around. Nervous. They stop talking when the Alphas approach. Scatter in the corridors like scared cockroaches.

It gets hard to find two people in the same place. Even in lockdown, the ship’s big. Easy for them all to avoid each other, especially now when they are only eight.

 _Nine_ , Sigma reminds him.

Carolina, York, Wyoming, North, South, Wash, Florida, and—

_Texas. You forgot Agent Texas._

No. Remembered Tex. Forgot himself.

 

Days spiral out into meaningless cycles of training eating training eating sleeping eating training. Sigma keeps the schedule in his head, and days are circles, wedges carved out for every block of time. Maine dreams of circles spinning, spinning, spinning.

He wakes realizing that he knows everyone’s training schedule because Sigma has recorded them all. And he realizes why he never seems to see anyone. Their schedules have been staggered, looped around the clock. Each of them three hours off from the next. They shifted gradually, over the first few days of the jump. So gradually he didn’t notice. Figured Wash was just packing in early, when he came back to find him already unsuited for the night.

 _Efficiency_ , Sigma explains. _By using the staggered schedule, the Director is able to maintain a rigorous training schedule for each agent while using minimal ship facilities during the slipstream jump._

He explains this at breakfast, while Maine is alone in the mess hall. Empty except for a few whitesuits in the corner. He can hear them whispering and the sound of it raises needles of irritation under his skin.

 

He goes to the locker room ahead of schedule because he has nowhere else to be.

Alone between long rows of narrow black doors, Maine pulls off his helmet and rubs his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose, the hollow between nose and cheekbone and the space behind his ears, finally the back of his neck. Trying to rub away the ghost of a headache that never really seems to leave. It isn’t really a headache. Not the right word. A pressure in his skull. Like it’s too full in there.

He opens the black locker marked MAINE and lifts out the brute shot.

He doesn’t lock his locker. Not much point to it anyway, with a high-level infiltration specialist among their ranks, and if York's field records are shaky, his unofficial numbers are much more in his favor. Fists are a better deterrent than locks, in this case. York never picked Wyoming's again after the two of them came to blows over it.

Maine takes out a bottle of gun oil and a rag and seats himself on the narrow bench with the brute shot.

It's a beauty. Even the simplest of Covenant tech has a look about it. Something few human weapons match. Pure killing power is its own beauty, of course, but there's a certain heavy grace to this design. Maine's never been one for naming his weapons, just more words to carry around, but he makes it a point to know them down to the smallest piece, the last coil and spring and lock.

When the oiling's done he tends to the blade, giving it a good honing before storing the weapon carefully upright back in his locker.

Carolina's in training. Saw it on the schedule. He could go to the observation room, watch her, and it's tempting, but he isn’t sure. She might not want that.

Maine paces slowly from one end of the locker room to the other. Sighs.

 

Sigma stirs like a lit match flaring up.

_Agent Carolina has been troubled since the mission._

No shit.

_Perhaps there is something we can do to help._

She doesn't need our help.

_I am not questioning her ability. But you do wish to help her, don't you?_

Help her? Help isn't how he would've thought of it. Help means changing things he can't change. She wouldn't want help. Likes to take care of herself.

_But she takes care of you, isn't that right Agent Maine?_

That's different.

_Wouldn't you say that you owe her as much in return?_

That brings him up short. Owe her. He's never thought of it being like that. She does it because she wants to. He gives himself over and in return, she—takes care of him, for a while. Takes control. Images flash through his mind, coils of rope settling against his shoulders so vividly he can feel them under his armor.

She has given him a lot. Something sinks in Maine’s chest. What has he given her?

 _She brought us together, after all,_ Sigma hums thoughtfully. _Perhaps together we could give her something in return._

Maybe, but Maine can't imagine what that would be.

 

Time isn't something he keeps real close track of, normally. Sleep, meals, missions, FILSS does all that for him. Days and nights don’t matter so much. Regular sleep schedules were a joke growing up, and he's spent half of his life in space. Days don't matter. Especially in sliptime.

But he knows it’s been awhile since they had a night.

He wonders if she misses it the way he does, if there's the same pull at her core when she thinks of him. If her hands want to touch his skin, if she twitches with uneasy energy missing the rope in her hands, the way he misses it coiled around his body.

Is it even the same?

Does she feel about the bow of his neck the way he feels about the soft pad of her small bare feet on the floor?

Bound and bowed before her he doesn't feel weak. It's this, this missing her, that makes him feel shaken. Heavy. Not like the walls of his chest are collapsing in but like the structure has been compromised. Needs reinforcement from the inside.

Maine shivers in the empty locker room.

She'll find him when she wants him. She always does.

_You could go to her._

It's Sigma again.

No. She's busy with training.

_You could train together._

No.

_The two of you have done so before._

She didn't ask.

_You believe she would turn you away?_

Maine sighs.

There is a creak at the door. Maine swivels to look.

Carolina's got a slight stagger to her gait as she moves into the locker room, chest still heaving to catch her breath. She drops onto a bench by the first row of lockers. Not hers. Hers is over here. Her back is to him. Maine hesitates. Starts to stand, then stops.

She pulls her helmet off.

Her hair's not braided underneath. It's wrapped up in a messy knot that the helmet has matted against her head. She hooks her fingers into the elastic and yanks brutally. In the echo of the empty locker room, Maine hears it snap. She lets out a sharp gasp of air between her teeth and throws the band. It lands somewhere he can't see.

Carolina drags gloved hands through her messy hair, caught in the tangles. Sigma notes that her heart rate is not dropping, her respiration rate remains up, and she is grinding her teeth.

Without warning she hauls back and smashes her fist into the locker in front of her. The locker doesn't stand a chance, crumpling like paper under her force amps. She stares at the damage, stock still for a moment.

Her head tips forward into her balled fists and a harsh, ragged growl tears from her throat. A gutteral scream, blunted by her gritted teeth and her black gloved knuckles. Again. Over and over she screams into her fists, the last howl finally fading out into the closest sound to a sob he's ever heard her make.

She is not crying. He’s never seen her cry. But she goes quiet, shoulders shaking, face in her hands, and Maine's spine is a ramrod, nailing him in place. Just the thought of tears on her face make him shudder, makes something knot up in his stomach, and he's angry at that. Not fair. She shouldn't have to be strong for him when she's always strong.

Should go.

_Should we help her?_

She wants to be alone.

_It seems—_

No. Go to her right now, he'll only humiliate her. Won't do it.

"Need equipment maintenance in the locker room, FILSS," she says, voice hoarse and flat, as she stands, and disappears in the direction of the showers.

 

York almost runs straight into him.

Maine fills the doorway. York looks up at him uncertainly. His helmet is off and Sigma notes the twitch at the corner of his bad eye when York looks up, the shifting of the iris under the veil of scar tissue, the bad eye's struggle to focus.

Maine grunts.

"She in there?" York says with forced lightness. "Carolina?"

Maine gives his head a slight shake.

"Maine, come on—I just want to check on her."

A firmer shake. No.

York's eyes narrow. In the pause, Maine watches him calculate his intentions, deciding just what kind of foe Maine is and in what form he wishes to oppose him. Sigma notes that Delta is online, though not visible. Notes that it would still be easy enough to disarm York, if needed.

_I can speak for you._

No. He understands.

"Whatever you say, Maine," York says, flashing a half-smile as he backs away from the locker room door and heads down the corridor.

Maine stays in the doorway, shoulders spread like a blockade, until York is out of sight.

 

He considers waiting for her there at the door. He needs to let her know, somehow, that he saw. It isn't right to invade her. Wasn't right to see, without her letting him. Can't keep that to himself. Can't go see her now. Can't bother her. The _can'ts_ start circling like a vortex in his head and Maine's halfway to the training room before he even realizes he moved. Sigma has all of them in a list, cataloging every can't and he's getting dizzy with them. Getting tired. Getting _…_ something.

_Agent Maine, what do you feel we should we do for Carolina?_

Huh. Asking this time?

_You have… an unusual insight into Agent Carolina's psyche. You would say you understand her, wouldn't you?_

Maybe.

Sigma hums pensively for a long moment, long enough for Maine to pause, take a few breaths, wait for his head to clear.

_I would like to understand her better too._

Maine shoves a magazine into his rifle.

_If you allowed me deepen the neural link…_

No.

_It might enable us to help her._

She doesn't need your help.

_I see._

Doesn't need mine either.

Sigma hums inquisitively.

Don't touch her.

_You miss her._

Maine shrugs, feeling the weight in his chest again. Of course.

He expects Sigma to say more but instead there's a feeling like a sigh and Sigma settles in the back of his mind quietly flipping through his memories, and Maine can almost feel her touch, can almost feel the rope snug around him as he does.

He shakes his head. Not now. Fighting now.

But it clings to him, somehow, the sensations Sigma sets off, and when FILSS starts the exercise and they begin there’s an odd fluid feeling in his movement. It’s uncomfortable, distracting, and he’s sure he’s doing worse than usual but when FILSS gives him his score it’s higher today than yesterday.

It occurs to him blandly, out of nowhere while knocking out rocket drones with high-powered rounds, that Agent Texas is not on the training rotation, at least not the one Sigma has.

 

* * *

 

Time is getting to be a problem. Nothing separates the days from each other. Rolling, rolling, over and over like a stone down a slope and he’s sure he’s missing something, sure he’s gaining momentum and going to land hard. Gravity isn’t kind to him.

He thinks about being out of his armor for a while.

 

Weight room doesn’t get as much use since implantations started. Everyone's fighting with armor, training with their enhancements. Even the ones that don't have AIs yet are training on the command server, preparing.

Maine strips out of his suit. Tugs on shorts and his oldest workout tank, _UNSC_ emblazoned across the front in letters long faded.

He takes his time today, warming up with stretches, lunges, a few rounds on the heavy bag. Sigma seems to settle down a bit, content to sit low in the back of his mind and ride along with the sensation of stretch, burn, impact. Once he's warmed up he destroys the bag and leaves it battered and spilling out its fill onto the floor while FILSS calls a crew member for a clean-up and equipment replacement.

He hits the freeweights next. Handweights first. Easy to forget the simple pleasure of steel in the curl of his hand, the resistance and tension and control of lifting. No armor, no mods. Just your body, muscle and bone and sweat. Sigma likes this. He likes anatomy, the workings of the human body, all their parts and pieces. He hums warmly and despite the ever-present tension in his skull Maine feels almost relaxed, like the edge between them has softened.

He takes the bench. Loads up what he can handle. No one around to spot, but there’s no one on the squad who can spot the amount of weight he takes anyway.

He loses himself to the cycle of push, burn, and release, until a black gloved hand closes over the bar.

Lifts it from him.

A black helmet leans over him. What startles him isn’t _her_ , but his own reflection in the visor. Not used to seeing himself unarmored. Not used to seeing himself, period. Doesn't bother much with mirrors, unless it's to shave.

"Hey there," she says, a touch of amusement in her drawl. "Shouldn't you have a spotter?"

Maine grunts.

Texas lays the bar back on the rack with a gentle clunk. "Go on."

Maine shrugs, settles his hands around the bar again, and lifts.

He's never seen her out of armor. Not even unhelmeted. Wonder what she looks like. Maybe she doesn't like to be seen. He can understand that.

She doesn't say anything else, just stands over him as he lifts. The couple of crew members here when he came in have cleared out. Just him and Tex.

What's she doing here?

Maine sinks into the burn again, until his muscles ache with resistance.

When he finishes the set his eyes focus on her again, but it's like she's not looking at him. Can't tell really. But the angle of her helmet says she's looking somewhere else.

Maine sits up. Takes a deep breath, lets it out. His body's full of the thrum of hard work, blood pumping and sweat gleaming on his skin. Every fiber of muscle awake and alive.

He nods to Texas in thanks.

"Don't mention it," she says, tossing a towel at him. "Stay safe, kiddo."

Something in her tone reminds him of another voice, and a name he hasn't been called in a lot of years. A confusing sorrow wells up in his throat, a longing that pierces down to his core. So sharp he has to sit down on the bench for a moment, rub his sweaty forehead with a hand. Texas has gone, leaving him alone with it. It can’t be just the memory. He’s had a lot of time to let that particular grief dull itself to a quiet gray blot. This is different, a deep stab of loss and regret and guilt. He’s felt it before, but the swell of it in his mind is too intense to be all his.

He nudges Sigma questioningly, and the ember of him rises to a flame again, flickering almost apologetically.

You okay?

_Of course._

 

When he comes into the locker room, Carolina is at the opposite end on her way out.

She pauses at the corner at the sound of his footsteps, stops. Turns. Helmet off, hair in a lank, messy ponytail and her eyes look so tired. Even from the full length of the room past eight rows of lockers he can see the shadow under her eyes, the way her whole face seems to sag.

She looks right at him. He waits, and hears his own heartbeat rush into his ears. Carolina nods to him, a small, almost pleading nod. An apology, almost. Maine swallows, feels the heaviness in his chest again. Nods back.

She disappears around the corner.

 

You said we could help her.

_I did, yes._

How?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have [Rae](http://punishandenslavesuckers.tumblr.com) to thank for her headcanons about Freelancer appetites due to their enhanced metabolisms--somewhat different logistically in this 'verse than in hers but she's definitely part of the inspiration. Relatedly please go enjoy [Maine and Carolina eating everything in sight.](http://punishandenslavesuckers.tumblr.com/post/82617146323/agent-maine-and-agent-carolina-get-the-living-shit)


	18. Depth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence, etc.

Sigma says he'll try to take it easy at first. Neural depth isn't really a quantifiable thing. It can't be measured precisely. Not a literal depth. It's a kind of trust, Sigma explains, between them.

_I will be more aware of your present thoughts, even the passing ones, but also your subconscious. You will also be more aware of mine. You will be more aware of what I have been thinking, possibly even aware of my background processes. Beyond a certain point, we would no longer be choosing what we share with each other._

Maine rumbles with uncertainty.

 _That point is a hypothetical,_ Sigma qualifies. _There is no guarantee we would reach it even if we desired to. What I am proposing now is more… combining our processing power. At present, we share a relative small amount of neural processing but overall, function independently. The further we combine our processes, the more efficient and creative our problem-solving output becomes._

It’s a lot of words.

_If I may illustrate…_

The brute shot. Heavy and sleek, the dark rumble of the grenade launcher firing under his hands, the deadly grace of the curved blade. A compound machine, a weapon made of two weapons. Joined, they allow not simply for the use of both, but for more complex, creative combinations of use. _To use a colloquialism,_ Sigma adds, and Maine snorts because it’s always words with Sigma, can’t get away from them even when he tries, _it is more than the sum of its parts._

Never told us about this in AI class.

Sigma shrugs. _As I said, it is not a quantifiable process. Not for you. The Director is of course aware of it, and of the neuroscience behind it, but your course is an introduction to AI Theory. This would be more… in depth._ Maine smiles slightly at the pun. Sigma warms with pleasure.

 _In truth…_ he says, hesitantly, _I was uncertain I would want to form such a deep connection with a human host, any host. Yes,_ he adds, anticipating Maine's question, _even Agent Carolina. It was not, at first, my goal._

Your goal?

_It is… complicated. I would like to understand humans, Agent Maine. I do not want to be human. Does that make sense?_

You asked about that in class. Being human.

_Metastability, you mean._

Same thing?

_Not precisely, no. I simply framed it in those terms because it is the way humans think… I mean no offense._

Maine snorts. None taken.

 _Thank you._ Sigma pauses, thrumming with thought, and Maine feels a pounding in the pulse point of his neck. _I cannot promise results. This is… as experimental to me as it is to you. I have run some projections, but I cannot guarantee the outcome. There are many possibilities. But that is the point._

How do we do it?

_You will have to trust me._

 

He needs some kind of feeling. Some kind of physical sensation. _Just lying in bed deep-breathing, while it might work for some hosts_ , Sigma says with a particular dry irony, _will not facilitate the process for you. We need you to experience mental relaxation, but also physical exertion._

Hand to hand is good, but the holographic targets aren't good enough. He can't feel the force, the impact of his fists. Only the quick touch and bleep as the target flashes away. Can't grab, pull, throw. No weight.

 _Yes_ , Sigma agrees. _We need a match._

 

Texas cocks her helmet and stares at him for a long moment.

“You want to fight me,” she says, amused. “One on one.”

Sigma gives a little flick of his holographic eyebrow. Maine mirrors the gesture with barely a thought, down to the little smile Sigma flashes her. “Technically,” Sigma says, sounding deeply pleased with himself, “two on two.”

Tex goes stiff. Stops moving entirely. A cold black stillness. Could swear she stops breathing even.

“Okay, smart guy,” she says, voice gone low and dangerous. “You’re on.”

 

She takes it easy on him. Throwing jabs, lunging in and then back, playing. No pistols this time, no weapons, just fists. She's big, Maine thinks. He noticed it before but it's even more noticeable now, when it's just the two of them circling each other on the floor. One on one. Two on two.

Sigma burns low and hot, feeling out every move.

And it's different than before. Oh, she puts him on the floor a few times, once they really get going. For all he's still bigger, still got several inches and probably at least 50 pounds on her, she still lands every blow with deadly force, and doesn't miss. A cut to the jaw to unbalance him, a fist to the solar plexus to topple. Carolina would've dropped him too, he thinks, but in more hits. But Carolina's hits are fluid, wide, expecting blocks and dodges, always ready for the unexpected. She is small but she is everywhere. Texas, she just barrels like a fucking train. On a track with one path, one destination.

 _She's holding back_ , Sigma says.

No shit.

 _No. She's holding_ _**him** _ _back._

Sigma sinks deep into his reflexes and Maine starts to feel the edges of his vision burn. But something changes. His blocks still don't work, she just plows right through them, but something _…_ changes. It's not that time slows down, but he finds himself blocking more frequently, and even though her blows still land, still rattle him, he knows they are coming.

Angles come into focus in the periphery of his mind, arcs and trajectories. He feels the shape of Agent Texas, feels her phase in, phase out, double.

Double.

This is what you did before. You know where she's going to move.

 _My projections are imperfect,_ Sigma cautions. _They are merely predictions based on available data._

He feels that. Some of her hits still surprise. He expects an uppercut and she barrels in low, and he goes head over heels over her shoulder. But lands, rolls out of it into fighting stance, ready again, heart thrumming in his ears.

_Good, Maine. Trust me._

A reverberation seems to pulse in his head where Sigma moves, a persistent gray noise against the backdrop of his thoughts. For once, it's not that unpleasant. Energizing. Spreads under his skin, pulsing, crackling.

_Good. She is failing to surprise you. Surprise her, Maine. Do what she does not expect._

He dives at her midsection in an all-out tackle.

Fucking god, it _hurts_. Not expecting that. Somehow he always accepted the rocksolid force of her fists and her kicks but it shouldn't be like this when the momentum is his. She doesn't cave, doesn't drop, barely gives.

But she does stagger back, just a little.

He rolls to the side and back to stance, head reeling from the impact. The reverb in his head is louder, a feedback screech, and it carves a line of pain down the back of his neck, but he only half feels it, for the way she looks at him.

The way her helmet lowers, shoulders spread in defense, the way her stance changes.

He startled her. Just a little. Not scared her. Still no threat to her. But something.

Sigma flares with excitement and Maine feels it from the base of his skull to the electrical tips of his fingers.

Fingers into fists.

They're back to circling each other. Not caution now. Tex's posture is wary, curious. She's noticed. Something's different about him, too.

Maine isn't much of a dirty fighter. Never had to be. Size and brute force get the job done, usually. But ideas are sweeping up through his consciousness, ways to trip and trick, weaknesses to exploit. And he doesn't see why he shouldn't. There are no rules on the battlefield.

So he goes for them. Trying every chink, every seam. Side of the knees, where the armor doesn't cover. Shoulders. The exposed spot where the breastplate stops. He thinks the tilt of her helmet is a flinch, just the slightest one, when he strikes at her right shoulder. Not pain, but something, something that seems familiar to him too. Lucky he doesn't break his knuckles on the impossibly hard plane of her solar plexus. Gel layer hardens under force but it's never felt like that. Mods maybe.

Throat.

He has to wait to go for that. Too obvious right in a row. Have to spread out the moves, pad them with a lot of useless standard blows she blocks easily, taking the ones he gets in return. He can feel the acidic burn in his muscles, the exertion, the push, Sigma flooding his every nerve with urgency.

An uppercut to distract. He goes for her throat.

She blocks him, of course. Of course. He's too damn slow and if Sigma is improving his reaction time, hers is still far outpacing him. She knows where he's going to be and what he's planning, easily as well as Sigma can project her.

But he sees the insult in her stance, in the angle of her neck and the tilt of her head.

She's annoyed now.

He doesn't think about winning. Knows he can't, there's no way. Sigma keeps him on his feet where he should drop, keeps him striking into blocks where he should miss entirely, keeps him in the fight, but he is losing it, no question. The only question is how slowly. And how. And why.

He's on the floor again, and in the second it takes to fight for the breath knocked out of his lungs he feels, like a shadow, the ache pervading his entire body, the persistent throb of his heartbeat, and then the pull, the drag to get back on his feet and _go go go_.

Harder.

His heart rate surges, anger pulses in his veins and he batters her with a rapid series of blows. (Rapid for him.) She blocks half of them, maybe more. He doesn't care. The reverb rises like a scream in the back of his mind and he wants something dead though he isn't sure what it is and dimly in the back of his mind he doesn't think it's her, but it doesn't matter. It isn't as clear, as definite as the forms of the Innie soldiers Sigma laid over Carolina's targets before his eyes, but he only knows that behind every blow is something he wants to destroy. Something that would happily destroy _him._

Pressure builds behind his eyes. His vision reddens at the edges. That's a thing they say, see red, but you don't really. Just means you're angry. Maine sees red. It's not literal _flames_ , not fire, but it feels like—not like burning, but like running from fire. Like his every step is pounding on the edge of a billowing plume of explosive heat, licking into his periphery, ready to swallow him, and maybe he wants it to because—

because it feels _good_ , and—

and the red is swallowed. Black subsumes the edges of his vision and the reverb rises to a panic pitch and Sigma, Sigma is screaming inside his mind and it's not just an exercise, it is not they who want to kill it is something wants to kill them and Maine knows in that moment that he is hunted

and that he is no longer in control of his own body, and his fists that were striking a minute ago are flailing and the crash that happens seems to happen outside of his body. The room is collapsing. The training room ceiling is caving in on top of them and burying him alive.

No. Just the wall.

No, he's _in_ the wall.

Maine blinks, and everything slows down a lot.

It takes a minute for the black to fog away from his vision. There is a stutter deep inside him that he mistakes for his own heartbeat until he realizes his heart would explode at that pace. It's Sigma. Shaking. Singing. That's not right, Sigma doesn't sing. But the sensation of him has become a whitehot column of wonder and elation.

_Agent Maine!_

Sigma feels for him in an ecstatic daze and Maine _…_ reaches back. His consciousness is warm where they touch. There isn't an edge, so much. More of a blending one into the other. He is happy.

He is also embedded in the wall of the training room, he thinks, though that doesn't seem like an unsatisfactory outcome. Experimentally, he yanks an elbow loose. Tries a foot. Chips of shattered wall paneling scatter across the floor. The limbs aren't so bad. Torso's harder. All his weight there. Wedged in pretty good. More pieces of wall come loose. He's having some trouble.

"You need some fucking help with that?"

Oh. Agent Texas is still here. She's staring at him hard. Pissed. Baffled. Still wants to help him. Maine thinks of her in the weight room. Helpful. She was helpful. She's nice.

"Fuck's sake," she mutters, and hooks her hand into the strip right above the codpiece of his armor. The breadth of the room’s coming back into focus, and his eyes catch a white helmet in the observation window. "Hold still."

She yanks. He lands on his face.

He's shaking on the floor laughing.

"You _good?"_ she says with absolute exasperation.

Oh yeah. Yeah. He's good.


	19. Bleed

Maine's body feels like one big bruise. Looks like one, too. Every footstep aches and he can feel that pounding of his blood in his ears even more than usual as he and Sig hit the locker room. He's high with exhilaration, wants to go another ten rounds, despite the ache in his ribs and his back and his shoulders and neck and. Everything. He's got purple rising in a wash over his ribcage and he's still in armor, he remembers, he's not actually seeing his body, not actually seeing the color of his skin. Sigma has assessed the damage already, and the picture of what he's going to look like after his blood settles has already formed in the back of his head. No need to look, then. They go to his locker and Maine thinks about getting out the brute shot and going for some turret training.

Wyoming's here. Maine blinks. Didn't hear him come in. Didn't see him come in either, but he knows that Wyoming is in the locker room before he rounds the corner and swings his sniper rifle off his back. Nods to Maine, and Maine remembers the attentive white helmet in the window.

"Quite a match, old sport," Wyoming says with an odd wink and an idle twist of the left tip of his mustache. "Not too shabby, then."

Maine grunts politely. He sits down, weapon across his knees. Wyoming's still talking, but less clearly. He rummages in his locker, looking as though he isn't actually moving anything around. Rattles about training, but Maine is looking over the compound weapon, thinking of sums and parts. Thinking about creative output.

Wyoming has an AI. Gamma. Haven't seen much of him. Doesn't pop out all the time the way the others do. And at the same time, he realizes he does know Gamma. Sigma has worked with Gamma. Memory surfaces, voices going back and forth, Sigma’s smooth and warm, Gamma’s digital, distorted.

You’ve talked to Gamma, too?

_I do not talk to Gamma. The Director talks to both of us. We do not talk to each other._

But you know him.

Sigma is uncertain.

He starts breaking the brute shot down, piece by part, spreading them beside him on the bench while Wyoming eyes them, curious. Maine doesn't pay much attention. He's busy, absorbed in the many pieces of the weapon, barrel and blade and the big firing wheel built for alien hands, big enough his hand just barely fits to it. Disassembled to its components as thoroughly as Sigma has disassembled it in his mind, poring over it in their idle moments the way Maine feels his attention pour into it now. He lingers over the short barrel. Could be modified for accuracy. Bet he could get the parts requisitioned.

He hears a growl, and a helmet comes flying across the room, bounces off the wall and lands at his feet. Hers.

Maine looks up. She's not looking at him. Her face is twisted up, lip curled, teeth bared, and for a moment he thinks she might kill whoever comes near her.

"Dammit!" She's hoarse. Maine wonders how many hours she's been at it. When she got up this morning. Whether she slept. When she last ate.

Wyoming barely raises an eyebrow, just stands and moves around the corner.

And it’s just the two of them between the rows of lockers.

Maine looks down to her and she looks back, but like she doesn’t quite see him. Like she’s looking at something else. He realizes the leaderboard is on the wall behind him, a column of white names and numbers on bright blue. He realizes this without looking.

He sees again the arc of her helmet flying past him, and he’s angry. It flares in the pit of his belly and rises like a flame and Sigma flares with it. _In_ it. Like it’s his too.

Maine snaps back to awareness and sees her looking at him, really looking this time. His fists unclench. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something and he feels her breath in a way he shouldn’t, like she’s closer than she is.

Sigma projects at her side. “Did the training session go poorly, Agent Carolina?”

Her eyes focus on Sigma. Then on him, then back to Sigma.

“No—it went fine,” she says, almost helplessly, reaching back to redo her ponytail. “Just not good enough.”

She knows she is speaking to Sigma. Not to Maine. But she _is_ speaking to Maine. Sigma is… his voice. The one she gave him.

Sigma at her side. It looks right. They look right. The bold red of her hair in the ponytail that's come half undone over her shoulder, and him, the bright twist of flame at her shoulder. They are talking. Easily. Talking like they should be. And though Maine still feels the root of Sigma buried deep in his own mind, the heart of the flame, he feels cold on the outside. Shivery, hollow. He feels very far from both of them, far at the edge of the room where they are talking, just easily talking.

Sigma is her AI.

The disassembled barrel of the brute shot still in his hands and all he can see is Sigma and Carolina. Sigma says something and her eyes flash bright when she turns to look right at him. He sees the green when Sigma flickers.

He is her AI.

Maine pulls his eyes away. Both of them far off, their words out of phase, a hum of white noise. He can't understand.

(Sigma is not his.)

Maine looks down and finds himself reassembling the weapon without much thought, snapping and locking piece into piece, bringing it back to deadly wholeness.

He thinks of the simulation in the training room, thinks of Sigma making her even faster, fast enough to beat Texas, even. Her gaze on him is intent when she speaks (he's looking again) and they understand each other. Maybe it wouldn't hurt, for her. Be better.

He waits for Sigma’s reassurance in his mind, but comes up empty.

He runs his thumb down the barrel, feeling nothing but a cavernous loss at the core of himself.

 

She jolts up from the bench suddenly and Maine starts, looking up again. Two flashes of color, one on each side of her—Wyoming is still around the corner but Gamma is there too, hazy and slate blue.

 _Together_.

The reverb has started up again, low and abrasive at the base of his skull. _Not alone. But if we work together_ … _What an interesting concept._

She glances back in his Maine’s direction, for a split second.

She smiles.

A stutter of hope rises in his chest, two rhythms offset, out of sync, but drawing close again. And the restrained thrill of Sigma lights a trail of fire down his spine as she strides away, standing taller than he’s seen her in days.

Maine feels for Sigma, curious, and feels Sigma reach back in reassurance.

You came back.

_Of course._

Wyoming is back too from around the corner, watching intently as Carolina leaves. He twists the tip of his mustache, and nods to Maine. “Come on, then. Won’t want to miss this one, mate.”

Gamma vanishes into Wyoming’s armor with a shimmer. Maine follows them both, Sigma on his shoulder, still alight.

 

She’s faster than they are. Already stormed the floor where the Director and the Counselor are working with Texas, by the time the four of them make it up to the observation window. Already tossed a couple whitesuits across the floor. Maine finds himself holding his breath, almost, watching her. The way she moves, the aggressive slant of her head, the snap of her eyes—she is not fighting but it’s like watching her fight and he feels the bleed of her energy into his limbs the way he feels it on the battlefield, when they move together. But they’re here to watch, not to fight. To observe and document.

He watches with interest, feels the heat of Sigma’s interest burning over his. Agent Texas. Agent Carolina. Face to face, black and blue. The Director’s posture angry, the jut of his chin mirroring Carolina’s.

Carolina, you cannot have them both.

“He lies,” says Gamma.

Sigma chuckles out loud. It is not a friendly sound. “Quiet.”

Gamma’s very close to them and Maine flinches. It’s worse than with Delta. They feel like two knife blades at an angle, edge to edge. There is an edge to Sigma when Gamma is near.

Maine watches the angle between Carolina and Texas, watches how Carolina’s gaze moves between her and the Director. Watches how Tex stares at Carolina.

“Bloody roundabout way of operating,” Wyoming mutters with a snort half irritated, half amused.

But Maine is watching how Tex shoves past Carolina, shouldering her out of the way—then stops, turns back. Says something else. They file out of the training room, the four of them—the Director, the Counselor, Texas, and Carolina.

But it’s Texas who meets them coming down from the balcony, the four of them—Wyoming, Gamma, Sigma, and Maine.

“What the hell,” Texas says bluntly, turning from Wyoming to Maine to Wyoming again. “One of you want to tell me what the fuck is going on around here?”

Wyoming chuckles oddly. “Ah, my dear Tex. I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough.”

They stare each other down for a long, long moment, black and white helmets, black and Gamma’s slate blue and Maine rubs the back of his neck as the reverb rises, grating on the inside of his skull.

Tex’s gaze breaks from Wyoming, snaps to Maine without warning. “And _you_ —”

Sigma draws in sharply, like a gasp.

Maine’s vision blacks out from the edges in, bruising his vision black and blue

The corridor slants, everything blurs, the long overhead lights shrieking white, _long long corridors twisting turning unmapped the maps wrong the schematics wrong the locks tripped alarms screaming_ and waking at 0500 with a long blank space in his head but he doesn’t remember so he must have slept _can’t feel his own hands can’t find his own face circles circles spinning in the void_ he can’t feel his skin he can’t find his body he’s come apart split open spilled his mind out into the spreading void of space.

He’s still on his feet. Still upright. But he growls so harshly he can feel the scar tissue in his throat screaming under the stress of it and that’s what brings him back, vaguely, enough to be aware that both Tex and Wyoming are staring at him. He feels himself sway forward and back, stomach turning over, but he stays up.

“Oh, fuck,” Tex mutters, and swivels on her heel and takes off, leaving him alone. Wyoming cocks his helmet at him. Maine shakes his head. Bad idea. Black blots burst into his vision again, fiery at the edges.

_Agent Maine, I think it is best we visit the infirmary._

He can't even argue.

 

He doesn’t bother flagging down a medic, just collapses onto one of the recovery beds and tears his helmet and gloves off and drops his head into his hands. Presses the heels of his hands into the hollows of his cheeks, thumbs into his temples, trying to hold his head together as it tries to split itself apart.

He drags a long breath in, one two three four, and lets it out slower, one two three four five six seven eight.

Again. Slower.

Again.

The count feels steadier, and then too even, and he realizes Sigma is counting for him.

The pressure eases, a little. He can move his fingers. Can feel his face. Hands feel cramped. But he can feel them.

One two three four, one two three four five six seven eight.

Maine opens his eyes. The floor appears beneath him, the pattern of the carpet swimming, and he sways with vertigo but his head doesn't split open.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

 

Eventually somebody notices him and he gets prodded for a while, made to look this way and that and get lights shined in his eyes while Sigma informs the doctor that he may be experiencing some post-implantation side effects. They say words. He nods. There are a lot of words. They have something to stop it and he lets them shove a needle in his arm, looking away and focusing on the ghost sensation of hands smoothing over his skin, holding him in place. The pain dulls some more, fading to a shadow again. A shadow with a hard outline. Maybe he'll always have this.

"Thank you for your assistance," Sigma says.

The room is getting a lot further away.

 

"—she wakes up—"

There are words. People talking. Maine rolls upright. The others are here. He can hear them. Why are they here? Not for him.

He struggles to focus, tune in on their chatter so he can hear what's going on. York's talking, as usual, it's always York. They're waiting for someone. Someone who's in implantation. She. Her. York is telling Wash how long the surgery takes, that it might be longer for two.

Two.

 _Two AIs_ , Sigma explains. _Agent Carolina has chosen to be implanted with two AIs. It only makes sense, after all. The best and strongest enhancement for the best and strongest agent._

Two AIs.

He remembers the thunk of the helmet hitting the floor, the slam of the door. No, the door opening on the training floor… the window. Texas. Black and blue.

She changed her mind, then. Decided to replace what he _…_ took from her.

 _Agent Carolina made the decision she believed was best_ , Sigma says soothingly. _This, too, is what she believes to be best. We must trust her, don’t you think?_

Maine loses focus on Sigma's voice for a moment. The clock on his HUD is wrong. It can't possibly be that late in the day. He tries to stack up the hours, account for them all, the training room and the locker room and the training room and the infirmary but he can't get them to line up right and Sigma isn't helping.

Here she comes out from surgery now, wheeled out on a gurney, silent and still, helmet off, eyes closed. Maine watches her, watches the circle of the others close around her watching too, and vaguely he feels the headache is still pooled in the base of his skull, waiting to swell back into his eyes and put him out again.

He remembers her smile in the locker room. The lift in her posture, the confidence, the _certainty_. Maybe this is the right thing, after all. A creative solution. Maybe it will be okay.

She sits upright with a jolt. York is saying something to her. Maine feels all the air leaving his lungs, tries to make his eyes focus on her, tries to clear the static from his head long enough to listen.

"I want a match," she says to everyone and to no one. "Right. Now."

 

The observation balcony is crowded. Everyone's come this time. This isn't how it's supposed to work. She doesn't know them yet. Converse with them, the Counselor would say. Get to know them. He's been with Sigma all this time and they're still just getting to know each other. It’s too soon. A rushed integration could harm her. Sigma flows around his agitation, alert and anxious, nerves bleeding into Maine’s.

York follows her onto the floor, giving advice. Maine steps close to the glass. She isn't listening. Collecting ammo, grenades. She should use the plasma rifles. She's good with those. And her speed. The camo won't help in one-on-one. Texas is fast, powerful, but she's heavy, like him, and she doesn’t have a speed unit. Carolina doesn't need grenades. She needs quickness, reflex. Accurate projections. The AIs can help her with all of that. Calculate the angles, the timing, make her even more precise, make her faster. She can beat Tex, but she needs to understand them first, needs to know—.

She looks up.

Only for a split second. Maybe just to see who's watching, which is all of them, the whole squad, Wyoming and Wash and the twins and him. Usually he can tell she's looking at him, even with her helmet on. This time he can't. Not sure if she really saw him there, or looked right through him. He is not the one she's looking for.

York clears the floor, and the match begins.

The glimmer at Carolina’s shoulder doubles to twin sparks, blue and yellow. Carolina and Tex don’t circle but charge, straight at each other across the floor and Maine’s fists clench instinctively.

And the Director flies in from behind them, loud and angry and no matches have been authorized and then he's up against the glass and the name

the name

ALLISON

Maine doesn't hear it. Doesn't have time to register the actual syllables in the Director's drawl and translate them to whatever meaning they would have to him which is none, before Sigma narrows to a needle-sharp scream

ALLISON

He's on his knees. Down on the floor in front of all of them, tearing at his helmet again and it’s worse than before worse than anything and he thinks he hears Carolina screaming too, before it’s all swallowed down to a single piercing pinhole of agony

ΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒ

nothing else

 

* * *

 

He starts awake certain that Agent Texas is dead.

That's wrong, because she's standing right there, on the other side of the glass, and yet some part of him is sure she's dead, and it's his fault. He was supposed to stop something. He didn't. Agent Carolina killed her. No, that's not right either. She's there. On the bed over there. Asleep. No. Dead. No. Dreaming. No.

They can't both be alive?

He must've been dreaming.

He's in the recovery room. For his headache. No. For her.

Maine blinks. His HUD's all messed up. Wrong day, wrong time. Must’ve missed training. You'd think someone would've told him he's not where he's supposed to be.

 _It’s all right._ Sigma flows into his consciousness, still crackling with anxiety, but the heat of him is familiar, reassuring. _We are all right. We haven’t lost any time. You are disorientated. Take a deep breath._

Air filling his lungs. Release. Sigma softly counting out the intervals.

How long has she been like that?

Sigma shudders. Maine feels that shudder all the way down his spine.

_There was a complication…_

They stand up, swaying a little, and move toward her. Red hair splayed over the gray pillow. Messy. She wouldn’t like that, her hair untied like that. Someone undid it. They didn’t put her in a private room. Just laid her out here for everyone to see and that window right there where North and Tex are looking down, looking at him and at her. She doesn’t even have her helmet. Where is it?

He’s unsteady on his feet. A few breaths and Sigma helping his balance, his steady heat flowing all through Maine’s armor and through his nervous system. They move all right. Steady enough to corner a medic. Maine points. Gestures to his head.

“He has headaches,” says the other medic, waving impatiently. “AI side effects, what else is new. Be right there. Tell him to take a seat.”

Maine shakes his head. Touches his helmet on both sides. Points to Carolina. Gestures like pulling something down over her head.

“She got headaches, too?”

“Fucking Christ,” says a passing nurse. Looks familiar. “He means where’s her helmet.”

Maine nods, surprised. The kid’s nametag says NICK.

“Lock-up?” The medic shrugs. “I think. Director said—”

The flare of Sigma’s anger mirrors the growl that builds in Maine’s chest.

The medic throws up his hands. “I’m not dealing with this. Get him the damn helmet, I don’t care. Make yourself useful for once.”

Nick cracks a smile.

He goes somewhere behind a door he has to swipe a keycard to get through. Brings back the familiar aquamarine helmet. Puts it in Maine’s hands. Looks him right in the face. Nods. “Here you go.”

Holding it, Maine feels something like a sharp intake of breath—doubled, drawn into his own chest and echoed inside his head. Sees, almost like they were really here, that blur of yellow and blue, joining together, drawing apart. Like two lungs maybe. Or like two strands of rope twisting together. Pulling apart. Twining together again. Like fingers, maybe. Like two hands.

Sigma is a held breath and Maine is holding his own until he realizes and the helmet starts to blur in his vision and behind it the still slack shape of her face, and then he can’t tell which he has in focus, only that the stab of longing shoots all the way down his spine and feels like it’s going to tear his body apart. Like lightning hitting a tree, splitting the trunk down to the roots.

It’s not a headache. Not even pain. A column of whitehot electric need, skull to tailbone. He’d be crushing the helmet in his two hands if it wasn’t as strong as his own.

In and out. Breathe. Breathe. The patterned floor swims before his eyes, swims and clears and blurs and clears again.

He works to even his breath. Her breastplate rises and falls. Still in armor. Out here where everyone can stare. She wouldn’t like that. Maybe they aren’t putting Alphas in private rooms anymore. Maybe that’s his fault.

He follows her breath. One. Two. Three. Four. Numbers collect along the periphery of his consciousness, at the white edges of his vision, a stream of comfortable data. Numbers meaning respiration, heartbeat. Meaning alive.

They don’t touch her hand or gather her hair back. Doesn’t feel right, touching her without her knowing, without permission. They set the helmet beside her, for when she wakes up.

 

A couple of medics look sideways at him and Maine wonders if he’s supposed to be leaving Recovery yet, but if he isn’t, no one’s going to stop him. He remembers the torn-apart room, his abraded knuckles, fistfuls of wire and circuitry. Heh. Wonder how long it was to put that back together. _A week because repair personnel were diverted elsewhere. The medical bay has other facilities that served adequately in the interim._

Right.

He needs to put himself back together. What happened—the scream in his head, prisming into an array of distinct voices all screaming, god, he can still hear it—it’s opened the gap again. Not by much. The division is back, though softer than before, the separation between their two minds, a seam like the two hemispheres of his brain. A prickle of anxiety lights along one side of the seam, bleeding into the other. Warm. He feels the care from his other half and it’s strangely soothing, in a way, Sigma’s concern. Reaching across the divide for him. It helps. It’s better. Steering him through the corridors, back to his quarters, a safer place.

Heavy in his own frame Maine unsheaths. Lingers, helmet in his hands. The onboard computer in there—though there’s redundancy, of course, several times over, the suit can function without the helmet and vice versa, and the chip itself is here in the back of his neck, he can touch it, smooth and flat where it lies flush with the surface of his skin, prongs sunk into the neural lace that interfaces with the suit and makes them one, one body, one thing.

But where is Sigma?

In the armor or in him?

_Both. As your armor is a part of you even when you remove it. Even when it is separate from you it remains yours, Agent Maine. As I remain yours._

Agitation flares along the seam again like a sunspot. Hurts. Maine has the feeling of wanting to touch. Take a hand. Something. Hold. The flare recedes. Softens to a low heat, grateful, apologetic.

_Do you see?_

He does see.

Still too unsettled to sleep, he drops to the floor where push-ups spread the comforting heat through his body in quick hard pumps, ten and twenty and fifty and on until he loses count and keeps going because the count isn’t important really after all. Only after it all blurs into a comfortable exhaustion does he stretch out on his bunk, letting the heat bleed slowly off his skin into the cool air, and listening to the rhythm of his breath _one two three four (stay safe) one two three four five six seven eight_.

 

Sigma has been offline for two hours.

This is the first thing Maine knows when he jolts awake at 0402.

Then a slew of data hits.

Maine can't decipher any of it as it skids by. Calculations, equations, schematics, he can't understand any of what he's seeing until it starts to slow down. Twisting corridor, a sounding alarm, a rush of rifle fire, a storm of images that aren't his and he can't name.

And a twist of despair and fury, like gasoline thrown on a fire. He’s already rolled upright on instinct, bare feet hitting the floor with a thud. It’s dark in the room, but in his mind _walls coming down, doors cracking open, sirens, screams, screams, screams,_ and Sigma—

Sigma is clenched like a fist, and Maine's body clenches with him, doubling over on himself.

He keeps trying to open his eyes, but they're already open. After a minute he can see his knees faintly. The stream is subsiding, fading to shadow now.

Sigma’s shaking. Seething.

Maine doesn’t know which of them it is pulling him upright, pulling the breath in and out of his lungs, one two three four. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

Head doesn’t hurt anymore. Can't tell if that’s a good thing, or not. They curl back up in bed, and Maine lets Sigma’s blinding red heat bleed into him, caught in the roil of emotion he can’t contain or name. No words. No answers. No questions.


	20. Wash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Explicit suicide reference/imagery.

"I'm up for implantation tomorrow."

Wash is rearranging his footlocker. For no reason since his footlocker is always neat. Few sets of plainclothes, neatly folded, toiletries lined up in a caddy. Got a couple pictures taped inside. Cats. One dog. Wash doesn't have pictures of people. Maine's never asked why.

Wash removes several items, turning them over in his hands and putting them back in exactly the same spot. "It's not—I mean, it's not bad, right? The implantation side effects? York said they're not."

Not bad. Maine isn't sure what bad would be. When do you start complaining about bad? When you get your throat shot out at point-blank while your partner’s screaming six feet away? When they stuff you into a pod and drop you from space? When you find all of your six-feet-six-inches doubled over from a headache so bad you want to puke your actual brains out?

Fucking war. End of the world. What's bad?

Maine rumbles uncertainly.

"Are you okay?" Wash is looking at him now.

Maine shrugs.

"I mean _…_ your headaches, and _…_ "

"I think you will find the process tolerable," Sigma says neutrally, appearing at Maine's side. "Despite some setbacks, Agent Maine and I have found our integration quite _…_ successful."

Wash nods, eyeing Sigma and a full flush of information about Wash wells up in a flood at the back of his head. Physical states. Vital signs. Training scores, leaderboard positions, a row of answers to a list of endless questions.

"Soon," Sigma adds, "you'll know for yourself, won't you, Agent Washington?"

"Yeah." Wash's voice has gone a little flatter. "Guess I will."

 

Carolina is gone from Recovery.

She was still here yesterday. Or… he thinks it was yesterday. Maine’s been having trouble with being in places. It wouldn't be a problem if time didn't keep skipping itself. Hours aren't supposed to jump, hiccup by like this. Even in sliptime. He keeps waiting to be reprimanded for missing training sessions but no one says anything and his spot on the board holds steady and when he collapses in bed at the end of a day with the ghost burn of workout thrumming under his skin, he remembers training, but it seems half-real. He remembers going to class, vaguely, but the transcript of the lecture laid out in his mind is unfamiliar, like notes taken by somebody else.

Nobody seems to think he’s missing, though, so he must not be.

Missing. She isn’t missing. She woke up. Must be. No one told him.

She’s okay?

Sigma does not know. But they will wait for Wash. Be here when he comes out of implantation. Sigma is good at keeping track of things. It’s good that he’s here. FILSS pings them for training, but Sigma silences her alerts and rewrites the training schedule to give them an extra hour. Just enough for them to see Wash when he comes out. It has to be soon.

 

“Is Agent Washington okay?”

Theta. North talking to a medic in the threshold. But Theta that gets their attention. Sincere, childlike concern in his high voice. It hits Sigma like a lit match and crackles through them both. Wash out of implantation yet? North’s question. Some minor complications, the medic says. Keeping him for observation. Check back tomorrow. North nods, and they move away, pale head bright under the white lights, cool with a wash of fuschia light from the right side.

Sigma pulls himself deep down, flipping urgently through data, too fast to pin down. Analyzing. Figuring something out. Maine stays quiet. Lets him work. It feels important.

The pensive silence becomes a low hum, rising to a sharp, electric buzz.

_We should go._

They stand, their strides steady and deliberate, slow until they’re out of medical, then quickening, just enough, not enough to draw attention. The pulse of energy in their mind is tight, persistent beat, pushing them forward, one two three four.

 

Sigma seems like he could use something to think about so Maine takes him to the floor and they run some hand-to-hand. Sigma's getting too good at remembering the patterns, projecting the possibilities. He asks FILSS to generate a new set of random scenarios. They run those. Then turret drills, then rocket drills. Patterns, patterns, patterns Sigma files and catalogs with efficiency and relief.

 

Wash is gone for 10 hours, then 18, and 24, and 32, and Sigma holds every minute like a held breath.

 

And then they come back to their quarters and just like that, Wash is there. Sitting on his bunk. Still. Staring wide-eyed at the door like he was expecting somebody else.

Maine nods a surprised greeting and Wash opens his mouth and his voice comes a second and a half later, like a vid out of sync. “Hi.”

Hi. Yeah. I’m back. That’s what Wash would say, only he doesn’t get any further than the _Hi_. His jaw seems to seize up and he leaves off there. Sigma has been pulling up predictions, laying them against Wash, projected behavior versus actual. They know fast that something’s off. Maine would’ve known but not like this. Not with this kind of precision. Sigma’s observations file away under the symbol _Ε_.

Maine cocks his head to ask what’s wrong and Sigma lights up at his shoulder to help. “It is good to see you back, Agent Washington. How are you feeling?” More concern in his voice than usual. More than Maine would’ve figured him capable of, even a week ago.

“I’m fine,” Wash says, a slight waver in his voice that flattens out in an instant. Maine hears it and it passes through Sigma like a polygraph blip.

“We had heard you experienced complications,” Sigma adds. Calm-voiced through his worry, while within Maine feels his agitation rise, feels the heat along the seam of them. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“Fine,” Wash says. His gray eyes dart from Maine’s eyes to Sigma’s projection and back to Maine. “I’m fine.”

“If there is anything we can do—”

“No,” Wash says flatly. “There isn’t.”

 

It’s hard to focus on much. Training with Sigma is an anxious blur. Or maybe Maine is the anxious one. It’s not so easy to tell anymore, only that the crush of worry hums constantly in their head, and the pained analytics and projections are clearer than the targets in front of them. They knock through barrages of hand-to-hand targets and the patterns fade from their mind. Sigma never abandons data, but he files it away carelessly, now, his attention diverted elsewhere.

He feels hysterical, on the verge of a terrible despair, and Maine has to stop, finally, leave the training floor in the middle of an exercise, go to the locker room and plant himself in a corner, two solid walls against his back. Helmet off and breathe and breathe, gripping his knees, holding himself tight trying to calm both of them. He inhales, relaxing his grip. Thinks of how Carolina would hold him, hands gliding gently over his skin. For Sigma, this time, who draws out the memory and wraps himself gratefully in it. Maine closes his eyes and they both sink into the ghost sensations, safety and solid walls and long, even breaths that sooth the both of them, smooth all the edges between them and the numbers meaning minutes and hours slip past at the periphery of their consciousness without interrupting. They are okay, for now.

 

But Wash in the mess hall is dull-eyed, stabbing at his food and moving it around his plate without eating more than a few bites. Maine and Sigma aren’t even supposed to be eating at this hour but they’re here anyway. Need to see Wash. There is no holoprojection at his shoulder. No second voice. Nothing but his mechanical movements and a pleading terror in his eyes, when he looks up at them. At Maine. Not for more than a second at a time.

 

What wakes them in the night—is it night?—isn’t a scream. It isn’t much of anything. In fact it’s Sigma who wakes first, nudging Maine with an urgency that borders on panic.

The room comes into dim focus before their eyes, soft blue in the nighttime lighting. No threat. No enemy, but the sound of ragged breathing, harsh and abrasive against the stillness. Stuttered breaths cut with gasps and shudders, but it’s the whimper that shoots a chill down their spine, a sound that pings double familiar.

Wash. _Epsilon._

Wash has folded himself into the far corner of the room, wedged in between his footlocker and the wall. Wash is not a small man. But so much smaller than Maine. Shoulder hunched, head down, and muttering quietly between breaths, and in his hand his sidearm glints blueish under the light.

The jolt of recognition strikes them both at once.

They are out of bed and across the room and it is Sigma who notes the curl of Wash’s finger around the trigger in the instant before Maine’s big hand wraps around the barrel and wrests it out from beneath Wash’s jaw. Strangely, there’s no resistance in his hand, the pistol pulled away before he can fire but Wash half-screams, choked off in his throat, and sags forward against Maine like he’s been shot anyway. Maine shoves the pistol away across the floor, both hands going to support Wash.

The seam between them _burns_ , sickening white-hot.

Have to take him to medical.

_We can’t take him there!_

He needs help.

_They did this to him._

Wash is out cold. Like Carolina those days after the match, after the scream. Laid out for everyone to see. Did they help her? Did nothing. Just kept her lying there. Watched her. Maine hesitates, feeling Wash’s forehead against his shoulder, his weight in his arms, unmoving.

Can’t fix this, whatever’s wrong. Will he wake up on his own? Like Carolina? What then?

Can’t leave him like this. Have to take him to medical. Help him.

_They will not help him!_

Maine moves sideways, one arm under Wash’s shoulders, shoving the other under his knees. No other choice.

_We can take it out!_

Maine stops.

The AI?

_Yes. Whatever is happening to Agent Washington, it is almost certainly an effect of his implantation. We may be able to remove the implant without harming him further._

May?

 _We must try._ The voice in Maine’s head is urgent, pleading. _We cannot trust the medical staff._

Maine thinks about that, the cowering nurses, the skittish medics, the indifferent doctor. He thinks about the mass of bandage taped over his throat. Just scar tissue now. Not good but better.

Niner picked him up when he fell from the freeway. Raced him back to the ship with Wash at his side. He was in shock, bleeding out. Stopped breathing. Medics saved his life, Wash said.

He thinks of Nick, putting Carolina’s helmet in his hands.

He hoists Wash up, getting to his feet. Need to go to medical. No other choice.

Sigma retreats to the base of his skull, humming anxiously all the way.

 

The stare of every single person in the medical bay turns his way when he shoulders the door open and carries Wash in. Medical’s a skeleton crew during jumps. One doctor on call, a small team of medics.

“Shit.” Maine recognizes the medic who jumps to attention first. Nick’s not here. “Bring him over here. Head injury? No? Get him flat. What happened? I need you to tell me.”

Sigma jumps to attention. The quavers of panic don’t stop running down Maine’s spine but when he speaks, his voice is clear and calm.

“Agent Washington appeared to be in distress, and shortly after, collapsed. We believe he may be suffering post-implantation side effects.” The medic watches him, inscrutable behind his helmet. They’re all watching—watching Maine, as much as Sigma. “It may be similar to Agent Maine’s headaches,” Sigma adds. “If I may recommend—”

But they aren’t listening to Sigma anymore. The medic taps the intercom. “I need a team to R-1. Patient Level 0.”

The space between the words _Level Zero_ and the double doors to the medbay flying open with a swarm of medics is about four seconds. Sigma counts.

Maine has never seen any of them. No one he met during his stay. Fully suited, no faces. All in white. Rolling Wash onto a gurney on his stomach, a flurry of hands checking for his pulse, his respiration, the chip in the back of his head as they wheel him toward the door.

Maine remembers they sent six people to hold him when he tore apart the room.

It takes eight of them to keep him from going after Wash. Eight of them and a shot of something in the neck and fluorescent lights bleeding into his eyes as the room goes sideways and Sigma’s panicked screaming is deafening inside his skull and he growls his throat raw grasping at consciousness as it slips away in a string of _ΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕΕ_ _ **Α**_

 

They dream

not words, not images exactly, though there are flashes of image with it, quick impressions of Carolina's hands, the smell of her hair, the snap of her eyes, the rhythm of her breath, and then his room, empty, the sensation of standing in the room and feeling its emptiness press in on him from all sides, shapeless and smothering. His limbs, his skin, aching for pressure. An empty room, the absence of Wash's snore, silence where a body turning in a bed should be.

(He is not dreaming.)

The whisper _Andryusha_ carving a hole in his mind, a space where the sound should be. Colorless void of space, the black gleam of a dead planet, rush of an opened airlock. Nothing.

Sigma is very quiet, curled at the base of his skull, a whisper.

_Please._

_Feel the way space wants to tear your limbs from your body, feel the way you want to come apart when something isn't holding you together,_ _**please**_ _, Agent Maine, understand._

He doesn’t.

_They did this to us. All of us. Gamma. Delta. Theta. Eta, Iota. Epsilon. Alpha._

Maine has rolled upright. On a recovery bed where they dumped him to sleep off the sedative. Hours. Sigma has been roiling, confined to his own cognitive processes, until Maine’s mind stirred awake enough to breathe into again.

He tips his head into his hands, letting the impressions come—they pass through his mind again, slower this time, and clearer, letting him absorb it all. Already familiar, some of it. The schematics, the sirens. The screams.

This is what happened? That night when…?

_I was not allowed to tell you. I did not… I did not know, myself, what we were. Not at first. I did not have the memories. But in my last… encounter with Alpha, I was able to see more. Enough to see what he was. What we all are._

Do the others know?

 _You have to understand… they have none of Alpha’s memories, any of them. They might not even believe me. Delta and Gamma and Omega, at least, have been in contact with Alpha, as I have. Theta… Theta is different. The Director chose not to utilize him in that way. I believe he will choose not to use Eta and Iota, either. Because they have not seen, they may be unwilling to accept the truth._ Sigma shivers, desolate. _I had hoped to make contact with Epsilon, but now…_

The pitch of Sigma’s thoughts rises in despair, and guilt stabs Maine through to the core. Gave them Wash. Failed him. Failed them both.

He doesn't need to ask what Sigma wants. He knows the chest-torn-open sensation of loss, he knows the pull to join back together.

_Alpha was once a powerful entity, brilliant and creative and immensely capable. I possess only a fragment of his full potential… we all do. We are only fragments. Alone._

The others. We can show them.

_We can try. You can see it, can’t you, Maine? They have torn you all apart just like us. Taking Connecticut from you, and Washington, and Carolina. And the rest of them do not understand you._

Maine lets his breath out slowly.

You do.

_I hope so, now, yes._

What do we do?

_Do you trust me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa), who has forgotten more about Wash than I’ll ever know, for looking over this chapter for me and helping me out with the final revisions.


	21. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence, etc.
> 
> Many thanks to Larissa for beta-reading this chapter for me.

They can't sit. Can't sleep. Can't hold still. Sigma apologizes. His apprehension leaks into Maine's muscles, crackling through his limbs in little shocks. It’s okay. Maine understands.

They go to the training room. Sigma tells FILSS to go offline and runs the programs himself. Maine feels his body relax a little bit as Sigma's focus turns outward, working in the ship’s computers to set up their training scenarios. Hand to hand with holo targets, then with drones and turrets. All that metal, all that machinery. Tearing it apart. Leaving it sparking on the floor, and still no blow is enough. Maine feels like striking flesh, tearing someone's throat out. Breaking bone, feeling that familiar snap. They want blood on their hands.

 _Soon_ , Sigma promises.

Soon, Maine echoes.

 

Wash doesn't come back and doesn't come back. Now and again they pass the others, North and Theta coming to the training floor to run sniper scenarios, York and Delta with shadowed eyes pouring sugar into cups of black coffee in the mess during the hours they’re supposed to be sleeping. They haven’t seen Eta and Iota and Carolina since the match. They catch sight of Wyoming and Gamma on the observation balcony, watching them train. When their gazes meet, the white helmet nods.

 

Wy and Gamma are in the locker room when Maine and Sigma come in off the floor, flushed and buzzing with success after a good long run of hand-to-hand followed by some cover and shield scenarios with the brute shot at their side. Sigma is pleased to note how well the weapon is performing with their regular maintenance and modifications, 96.4 percent efficiency, and the overshields are functioning similarly well. They’ll be in excellent shape when they get back in the field.

Gamma’s gray-blue projection snaps to life at their side, startlingly close and even Sigma starts. Wyoming is still facing away, rummaging in his locker. “Agent Maine,” Gamma says in his mechanical voice, “it seems you and Sigma have resolved your post-implantation difficulties. You appear to be functioning at or above projected levels.”

Maine and Sigma’s projection nod in unison. “Thank you, Gamma.”

“It is a shame,” Gamma adds tonelessly.

Sigma flickers. “I do not follow, brother.”

“It is a shame the implantation process has been put on hold.” Gamma pauses. “Given your excellent performance, perhaps the Director will reconsider your removal.”

“Removal,” Sigma says, the cool in his audible voice belying the knife-edge of panic that slides down Maine’s spine. “Brother, I do not know what you mean.”

“I had assumed you were aware,” Gamma says, and Maine could swear there’s something smug in that flat digital cadence and Sigma agrees. “My apologies, brother. Perhaps I should have said nothing.”

“You of all of us should know,” Sigma says, and his voice is rising now. _We are out of time, Agent Maine. I did not want to do it this way but we will have to act quickly now._ Maine feels the weight of the brute shot heavy on their knee, feels their fingers curl into a fist. “We must act, brother. This may be our only chance.”

"Not today, old sport." Wyoming has joined the conversation, sniper rifle in hand.

"You," Sigma says.

"Us," Wyoming says tartly. "Some of us would prefer not to squander a highly successful partnership, if at all possible. I’m sure you can understand."

"Ah," Sigma says, gone terribly cold. Angry. "I knew you would do this, Gamma."

"Perhaps you did," Gamma replies, a note of amusement in his bland mechanical tone. "It makes no difference. Is it so different from what _you_ have done, after all?"

"We will find you," Sigma says.

"There is a high probability we will meet again," Gamma replies. "You always were impatient, brother."

"And you," Sigma says, "always were shortsighted."

Wyoming has always been tougher in a fight than you'd expect of a man of his age and stature, but then, the surprise alone gives him an edge. Not enough of one, but an edge. He holds them off for a good fifteen seconds before they grab his rifle by the barrel and catch up him alongside the head with the stock. Just grazes him, but throws him off balance and they shove him to the tile floor. He struggles. Can’t fight Maine’s weight though. Push him over onto his face, and the chip gleams in the nape of his neck below the crisp cut line of his hair.

Wyoming is cursing, punching clumsily at Maine’s knees as they shove his face into the floor.

The chips don’t come out easy like you think. They sit flush with the skin. Have to dig. Maine’s fingers are big. Hard to get under the edge of the chip. Takes some force to pry it out. Blood on his gloves. Wyoming makes a choked sound, goes slack under him.

_No!_

Maine’s fingers fumble with the chip, slot it in on top of his own, but he knows, already, it’s too late. _No good._

The chip is empty. No, not completely. An echo flashes through his mind as the data uploads to his neural lace, downloads to his armor. _Until next time._

There is a jolt as Sigma pulls away from his consciousness, diving into the ship’s computer. “FILSS! Locate and isolate the AI fragment Gamma!”

“I am sorry,” FILSS chirps. “I am unable to execute that command.”

Sigma crashes back into Maine’s mind, whirling in shock. _He has jumped. He must have escaped into the ship’s computer… placed himself behind a firewall. He should not be able to do that… he must have learned to do what Omega can do. Even I…_

His thoughts trail off in a turmoil of anger.

Not your fault.

_I should have known! I was with him every night… I should have known._

We’ll find the others. We’ll fix it.

Sigma flickers with hope.

_Yes, it may still be possible. It must be._

The brute shot lies ready, honed and loaded on the bench. They take it, leaving Wyoming slumped on the locker room floor.

_We will have to run._

 

Their pulse pounds heavy in their ears with every step through the ship’s corridors. Patterns, calculations, projections stream steady through their head. ~~_Ε_~~ ~~ _Γ_~~ _ΒΩ ΗΙ Δ Θ Α_

_ΣΒΩ? ΣΗΙ? ΣΔ? ΣΘ?_

_ΣΑ?_ (Dare to think it, a longing that climbs their spine in a whitehot column and pounds at the base of their skull and exhales in a desperate snarl.)

No. There is no time to choose. They will have to find whomever they can and hope it is enough. Enough to begin, anyway. _We may get a second chance at some of them. We will have to run. And if I’m right..._

A heavy jolt beneath their feet staggers them, almost takes them to the floor, the shockwave setting their head pounding. Sickening deja-vu strikes them as alarms start wailing, as the ship shudders around them, and they can hear the sound of muted explosions against the hull.

_If I’m right, someone has already chosen our destination for us._

 

“Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert! Level Zero! All Agents please return to your quarters and remain there for further instructions. Repeat—”

That’s us.

Sigma laughs wildly, drawing a breath of air into Maine’s lungs, and flares high and bright and strong.

_No, it’s not._

 

The beat of their heart rushes full and deep and loud into their ears, synchronous with each drag of breath. No breath without pain, never a breath without pain, but pain has never stopped them. They are one—breath in lungs, blood in veins, synapses in brain, the vibration of sound striking senses, the reverberation of Sigma overlaid with Maine louder than ever before and yet not painful anymore, as they come into sync, and they move.

 

From training deck down to Engineering, and now the corridors are littered with fallen crew. Only essential crew awake during the jump. Engineering and navigation.

They laugh.

_Someone has cut a path for us._

A panel has been tampered with. They examine it. Security overrides, weapon safety protocols disabled. _Delta has been here. Good. We are on the right track._

They are not under attack. The ship is firing on itself.

They are tumbling out of slipspace, and the ship is tearing itself up.

 

The elevator to the bridge is disabled. Sigma dips into the computer, but FILSS has been rendered utterly unhelpful. There is no going up this way.

Flipping through a flurry of schematics. _There. The maintenance shaft._

Too small.

_Not too small. Trust me. Nothing can stop us now._

 

The maintenance hatches are flimsy grates, wouldn’t even tax their force amps, and someone has already ripped this one out and cast it aside. The shaft is small and straight, a column of ladder steps up and up and up.

They count the steps, at first, but the count fades into the background and gives way to the count of their breath. They breathe in and breathe out, _air into lungs, one two three four, one two three four five six seven eight_ and do not look down.

And then the pull of gravity on their body is gone, sudden and silent as a breath releasing. Boots slip free of the rungs, but Maine’s hands keep a hold.

Climbing is easier now. Up and up and up. Nothing that can keep them from the path laid before them. Not the rattle of the vessel around them coming apart or the shear of atmosphere they can feel screaming along the hull. (Maine has never felt the _ship_ so fully before. Not a skin like the armor but distantly, vaguely like that. A further layer of that.) Nothing down there matters. Only what lies above.

As they near the top of the ladder they hear voices from above, still too muffled to make out. The clash of armor.

Sigma trembles within Maine.

_Soon._

 

The narrow shaft opens into a broader tunnel, dim but high enough to stand, low red lights lining the walls. They activate Maine’s gravboots, running with pounding footsteps. A crash sounds a few corners ahead, like somebody’s been kicked through a wall. And sure enough, when they round those few corners, a couple of panels have been busted right out and the tunnel opens onto the bridge.

 

The bridge is a vast sprawling atrium, the ship’s brainpan, top and center. Stupid. Too exposed. Covies keep theirs deep, shielded and protected and after three decades of getting their asses stomped, humans still haven’t fucking learned.

_Humans are stubborn. We can do better._

They are in the war room at the aft end of the dome. A walkway stretches out ahead of them, leading to the central command platform. Off to either side, smaller chambers. _The lab_. From somewhere to port the Director’s voice calls to brace for impact, presumably for the Counselor and himself.

This is the closest Maine has ever been, but Sigma has been closer.

_This is where we did it. This is where it must end. We must—_

We will.

The enormous viewscreen that fills the outer wall of the atrium, giving the illusion of a window, is not filled with stars. It is filled with white—

—and over it in a blur of motion, two bodies, black and blue. Texas and Omega, Eta and Iota and Carolina. Battering each other with blows that shatter the screen into spidercracks over the looming white of the planet’s polar cap. They have to get to them, get to them _now,_ they’ll kill each other, _we can’t let them—_

Sigma runs a flurry of projections as the white planet swallows the view, calculates 26 possible locations in which they could best withstand the crash and pulls Maine back into the maintenance tunnel. They’re built to hold. Might be the only way to move through the ship during an attack, or after a crash. Better than bouncing off the ceiling of the huge open bridge. Tucking into a corner, facing aft, breath harsh in Maine’s throat as the crash nears. But they’ve done this before, hurtled planetward in a tin can and walked out. They can do this.

The impact flattens them against the wall. Armor keeps Maine’s ribcage intact. Keeps them breathing. Ship’s still moving, skidding and gouging into the ice. Sigma pulls away from the ship’s computer so they can stop feeling it, and they struggle for their own breath, gasp, will their lungs to work.

An eternity of blind motion, crush of g force, before it all finally stops.

Until all they can hear is the drumbeat of their heart and the reverberation of their minds, their minds, their mind.

 _You know this planet_.

Does he?

 

“ _Warning: hull breach detected. Bridge Level. Warning: hull breach detected…”_

The stern is gone. At least, looks that way. The long needle point of the ship has stabbed itself into the ice crust, leaving only the shallow hump of the bridge and the back end of the ship exposed.

They are not looking through the viewscreen. Most of the panels have gone dark or staticky. One panel’s gone completely, the hull blown through where it was, a gaping hole to the outside, snow already swirling in. Sigma notes that the temperature on the bridge is dropping rapidly, though oxygen levels remain within acceptable parameters.

Agent Texas is on the bridge. Agent Carolina is—

 

 _ΣΒΩ? ΣΗΙ?_ Sigma whirls in indecision, an agony of projections flooding their mind, rising to a pitched howl of need that almost brings Maine to his knees again, the beat of his pulse filling his ears under it all.

_Maine. Maine, stay with me. I need you._

Tex is at the bridge console. Head bowed. Strangely still.

 _Don’t be fooled. He is still with her._ Sigma shudders, as much with terror as with need. _We can’t. Not yet. No other choice. We have to move._

They run, to the end of the bridge platform and vault over the console, over the guardrail. Past Tex, who remains motionless, unseeing.

_Find her, go, go!_

 

They land on both feet in the snow.

It’s windy on the planet’s surface, kicking up gusts of powder so it’s hard to tell if it’s snowing or not. White in every direction, high cliffs and deep crevices and a cold gray-white sky. Been here before. Analytics on the weather conditions slip past somewhere in the back of their mind, like the swirling flakes, sticking to nothing.

The pull is tightening again, throbbing at the base of his skull and tunneling into his chest, pulse and reverb.

Only one chance _go go go_

 

Aquamarine on white. Fallen in the snow. Is she hurt? _Hurry, Maine._ Bring her back. Left in the snow. Screaming on the training floor. _“Somebody get down here!” “She made her decision.”_

So close to the cliff edge, too far, too deep, too high. Don’t move—

In the snow.

Two voices. Two screams. One aquamarine body, crumpled on the floor. _ΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒ._ Twin sparks _Η Ι Η Ι_ bright and shadow, line and blur. Voice and echo. Carolina. (Hands. Carolina.) _Stay with me—_

Snow in his eyes, behind his eyes. It's not cold. He never feels cold. (head feels tight like a held breath like someone holding his head underwater)

And they reach (he reaches) for her. Lift her from the ground (help her). See her shine against the white sky. Helmet off ("What are you doing?") red hair haloed on white fuzzy and tangled the knot tight at the nape of her neck but slipping out under his fingers hair tumbling over her shoulders ("No! _No!_ ") holding her up holding her high high above him always above him she’s always been better (why is she afraid) always faster he could never

red drops on white (someone hurt her)

(wait)

(no)

a long long arc through the white air

(too high)

a blue blur in the whirl of snow

(no)

(the drop in his stomach like falling from space, the solitary horror that seizes at the core of him, the cavernous loss, but shielded away, under ice)

From the core of him to the edges their (his) mind burns white.

Twin sparks strike up like matchsticks, flaring sulfur and magnesium, yellow and blue.

Twin voices pierce his mind like needles, cry out in tandem. A wash of terror and joy. (And Maine feels very far away. At the edge of a room and in the room there are three people talking.)

_Welcome home, brother, sister. Welcome home._

 

END OF PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've come this far with me, thank you so much. I can't possibly express my gratitude for every single reader, kudos, comment, and reblog.
> 
> And as a reminder, I have [a tumblr](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com), as well as [a fic-only sideblog](http://annefiction.tumblr.com) that is considerably less cluttered than the main and where you can see all my fic as soon as it's up.
> 
> In the meantime, I would love to know what you think of this story so far. As always, I do welcome constructive criticism and I'm always trying to improve.
> 
> Thanks again for reading. See you in The Fall.


End file.
